by Tara Wylde
Of course, it also reminded me of how much I missed her.
The toast pops out of the toaster, and I fetch it, juggling the slices as the hot bread burns my fingertips until they’re safely on the countertop.
Sammy, his tail held high, the tip twitching in an expression of pure feline arrogance, walks across the counter as if he owns it, stopping a few inches from my toast. He leans close, his nose twitching as I slather the bread with peanut butter and raspberry jam.
“Don’t even think about it,” I warn him. I’ve lost more than one piece of toast to the damn cat. He doesn’t like eating it, but he loves shoving it off the counter and onto the floor. I haven’t figured out if he likes watching it fall over the side or just enjoys my reaction.
Glaring at him, I pick up a slice and bite into it, savoring the taste before swallowing.
“As far as I can figure,” I tell the cat, who is still eyeballing my second piece, “the most likely reason that Erin is having so much trouble sexually is that she’s not relaxed. I’m betting that she’s allowed herself to get so worked up about having an orgasm, that she gets too tense. She can’t just lay back and enjoy herself. So, I just have to figure out a way to loosen her up. How hard can that be?”
Sammy stares at me with gleaming yellow eyes. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear he’s laughing at me.
Chapter Ten
Erin
“I think this shade of purple is warmer and that women will respond to it better than that one.” I slip my glasses off and rub at my aching eyes.
“Maybe.” Tracy purses her lips and considers my selection. “But doesn’t the other one pop more, especially when it’s next to the yellow and red logo, and isn’t drawing attention our main priority?”
“Trace, I’m sorry.” If this conversation drags on much longer, I’m going to break down and cry. “I just can’t get behind any color that’s listed as eggplant. Not only is the name unappealing, but the color is way too dark, it makes me think of a sinister comic book character.”
Tracy lightly bangs her head on the desk. “I hate this fussy part of the job. Why can’t it be all focus groups and schmoozing clients? I’m good at that.”
I reach out and pat her shoulder. I know exactly how she feels.
We’ve done nothing but stare at a few different color choices and argue about which combinations best suit the print ad campaign we’re putting together for a local adult sex shop, The Sex Project, to promote a big charity auction that’s supporting sexual assault survivors.
I love helping businesses, especially small local businesses like the Sex Project, develop marketing campaigns, but I hate all the time things like this take. If I could, I’d happily foist the work off on someone else, but until the business becomes large enough to hire a few people, it’s just Tracy and me. Maybe next year business will be good enough to justify hiring someone else to handle the small, fussy details like picking the best color patterns
“We’re creating a campaign that has people storming The Sex Project’s doors.” My tone is a bit sharper than intended and is tinged with irritation. If I spend much more time trying to figure out the differences between various color samples, my eyes will start bleeding. “In order for that to happen, we need to make sure everything is just perfect, and I think that’s this shade of purple, not that one.”
“Feeling a little cranky today?” Tracy asks, a concerned glint in her eyes.
“Kind of,” I admit. “And really tired. I didn’t get more than a few hours’ sleep last night.”
“Any particular reason why?”
“Couldn’t shut off my brain.”
What I don’t tell her is that it was running a mile a minute because of my conversation with Mister No O. It ping-ponged from wondering exactly what he can do to improve my sex life and why his voice sounded familiar. And that damned voice. Just thinking about it has me feeling all hot and bothered. Even now, hours and hours after I spoke to him, the memory of how his words sounded in my ear nearly has me squirming in my seat.
I slide one of my desk drawers open and paw through its contents until I locate my little plastic bottle of emergency Aleve. I pop the bottle open, shaking a few out onto my palm before passing the bottle to Tracy.
“Thanks,” she says with a relieved smile. “When we started this firm, I never thought you and I would spend an entire day doing something as tedious as working on flyers. Hell, I never thought putting flyers together would be such a huge part of our job.”
I lace my fingers together and stretch my arms high above my head, trying to ease some of the tension in my back. “I never thought we’d be working for a business called The Sex Project. I always imagined that we’d have the type of firm that catered to lawyers, local doctors, maybe a golf course or two.”
“Nothing wrong with sex shops.” Tracy closes her eyes and rolls her head from side to side. “I suspect that they have a higher profit margin than most of the local law firms. Besides—” She opens one eye and peers at me “—it’s a good cover for that mistake you made yesterday.”
“Mmm.” Heat floods my face, but luckily Tracy doesn’t notice. “I’m sick of looking at colors. Let’s do something else.”
“Fine,” Tracy agrees in a mild tone. “Let’s talk fonts.”
Before I start banging my head on the desktop, my phone, my personal phone, gets an incoming text.
I stare at the small phone and chew on my bottom lip. Is it Mister O?
Tracy arches a brow. “Are you sick? In all the time I’ve known you, you’ve never been able to resist checking your phone.”
“I’m trying to develop some self-control and not jump on my phone the second it sounds off.” And doing so is killing me. I curl my fingers into my hands, the nails digging into the flesh as I sit perfectly still.
“But that’s your personal line. It could be a family emergency.”
“Fine,” I snap. “I’ll check it. Happy now?”
Tracy chuckles as I reach across my desk and grab the phone. The notification bar says the newest text is from Mister No O, the bastard whose promise to help me resulted in my losing an entire night’s sleep. The least he could have done was contact me this morning.
Rather than read his message, I throw my phone and the bottle of Advil into the desk drawer and slam it shut.
“It’s nothing important,” I tell Tracy. “Now let’s finish this so we can get the flyers to the printers.”
“I’ll email this mock-up to the printing press and arrange for them to deliver them to the Sex Project.” Tracy double checked that the flyer we’d finally settled on was saved to her tablet and stood up. “We did a good job, if I do say so myself. Between the work we’ve done and the fact that it’s a great cause, I think the place is going to be packed and the even will earn a ton of money.
I nod and stretch. “Hope so.”
I wait until Tracy leaves before digging my phone out of the desk drawer. Not knowing what Mister O said has been killing me the past few hours. Which might have been a good thing. The desire to know what the message said was bugging me so much I conceded on some factors surrounding the flyer that Tracy and I probably would have debated for several more hours.
Holding my breath, I look at the screen.
Free tomorrow for dinner?
I answer without any hesitation.
Yes
After a moment’s thought, I follow it up with another text.
Why?
I chew on my lip and wonder what he has planned. A Kama Sutra workshop? A long dinner that includes lots of wine and foods that are supposed have aphrodisiac properties? A trip to a sex club? A huge orgy? My mind bounces from one possibility to another, each idea becoming more ludicrous and embarrassing than the last.
Not for the first time, and probably not for the last, I wonder what I’ve gotten myself into.
A full seventy-two minutes passes before my phone chirps the response. I know because I’ve put more energy into watching
the clock than into actually doing my job.
The text arrives right after I lock my office door and start making my way to the elevator.
Call your doctor friend. See if he’s free.
Dan? Oh boy!
This time I don’t bother texting, I hit the call button and listen to the phone ring while I wait for the elevator doors to open. He answers as the doors slide open with a mechanical swish.
“Hi, Erin.”
I suck in a deep breath as my stomach muscles tighten and the juncture of my thighs warm. Damn. Two words and I’m more turned on than I’ve ever been.
Calm down, girl, I order myself. Sure, he sounds sexy, but he’s probably a smelly, fat, hairy truck driver who chews tobacco and hasn’t showered in a week. My mind is willing to be practical; the only problem is that my body doesn’t seem to want to follow suit.
My fingers tighten on my phone and I step into the elevator. “I just wanted to see if I got this right. You want me to call the guy who I kicked out of my bed and my life after I slept with him?”
“Yes.”
“Why?” I hit the button for the ground floor. “But wouldn’t it be easier, smarter, to find another guy and make a completely fresh start?”
“Not really. You’ve already started building a relationship with him and are at least comfortable enough with him to invite him into your bed.”
What he’s saying makes sense, but the idea of calling Dan, asking him out, sets a flock of giant butterflies loose in my stomach.
Mister No O—I really need to ask him his name—keeps talking. “Plus, you said that on paper he’s perfect for you, and perfection isn’t easy to find, so isn’t putting a little more effort into things worthwhile if it means getting a happily ever after, both in and out of bed?”
“I suppose so.” But it doesn’t make me feel any better. In fact, his pushing me toward another man feels … sad, I guess. Sort of like an ex-boyfriend spotting me out on a date with a hot new guy and being okay with it. “I’ll call him. See what he says.” Won’t that be a fun call to make?
“I bet he agrees to dinner. Getting dumped after sex might have confused him, but that kind of thing doesn’t upset guys as much as gals. I’d bet my left nut that he jumps at the chance to see you again.”
That makes me smile. “Your left one, huh? Something wrong with the right?”
“Nothing I’m going to tell you ‘bout,” he counters, undisguised humor making his voice even warmer and sexier. Blood pounds in my ears and I swear my knees wobble as the elevator glides to a stop. The doors slide open and I step into the office building’s lobby.
“Okay, I’ll call Dan. See what he has to say. If he agrees, then what?”
“You call me back and we start getting you ready for the best night of your life.”
“Oh, sounds promising.” The flirty, teasing tone startles me. In my entire life, I don’t think I’ve ever sounded like this. The funny thing is, I think I like it. Only one way to find out. “Want to give me a little hint of what to expect?” I walk out of the lobby, stepping from the climate controlled, air-conditioned building and into Tucson’s unforgiving warmth. Ignoring the way my silk shirt suddenly seems to wilt, I make my way across the faded parking lot toward my two-year-old Ford Focus.
“You’re going to have to wait and find out.” It’s probably my imagination, but I swear there’s a lightness in his voice that’s a direct response to my flirty words. The prospect makes me smile. “Talk to you later.” Before I can respond, he disconnects the call.
“Well, well, well.” A man straightens up from where he’s been leaning against my car’s hood. “Look at the smile. Pure sunshine. And did I hear correctly, do you have some kind of hot date?”
My stomach clenches. “Hello, Dillion.”
“Of course, I’d like to think that you’ve finally seen the light and that you’re grinning because you’re happy to see me.”
I roll my eyes and slide my keys out of my purse as I side step him. “No, Dillion, you were right the first time.”
Dillion Braddock. One of the biggest dating missteps I’ve ever made. Originally, we connected through an online dating service. It was about four months ago. He was an accountant at one of the biggest firms in the state and online he seemed like a nice guy, pretty much exactly what I’d been looking for.
Things started unraveling at our first face-to-face meeting. The online version of Dillion hadn’t been as self-absorbed, misogynistic, or egotistical as the flesh and blood version. I’d made it through dinner with him and then I tried ending it.
Every other time something like this has happened, it hasn’t been a big deal. I cut my losses, the guy cuts his, and we both go our separate ways. But not Dillion.
No matter how often I’ve told him I’m not interested, he keeps reappearing. He swears up and down that there’s something between us, something special, and that sooner or later I’ll realize it.
He drives Tracy nuts. Each time he calls or swings by the office, or sends me a dozen roses, she fumes and tells me how I should call the police and file a restraining order. And she’s not wrong. I probably should, but since Dillion never feels threatening, never does or says anything objectionable, but seems determined to simply wear me down with his sheer presence, I have a difficult time taking official action against him.
It’s been a few weeks since the last time he unexpectedly showed up. I’d thought that maybe he’d finally moved on. Apparently not.
I open my door and slide behind the wheel just as Dillion loops around the front of my car. He grabs the door frame before I can shut him out and leans down to peer at me.
“Who are you seeing?” His tone is slightly whiny, like a six-year-old who has just been told that they can’t have a second piece of chocolate cake for dessert. “Another guy you found on the internet?”
He says it in a mild tone, like he’s nothing more than casually interested, yet every time he mentions my love life, I get the impression that my seeing other people actually cuts him to the quick.
His reaction confuses me, and I don’t like being confused. I’ve always preferred that things be nicely black and white.
“It’s none of your business.” I punch the ignition button and the engine quietly turns on.
“But I love you,” he says sincerely. “And someday, you’ll realize that you love me too, that we’re perfect for each other.”
I blow out a heavy sigh. It’s not the first time Dillion has said something to this effect, and each time he becomes more pathetic.
“Dillion, I’m sorry, but I don’t feel anything for you. I tried, but I don’t.”
“But you’ve dated lots of guys since then, and it hasn’t worked out with any of them, either. They never stick around. I do.”
Much as I hate admitting it, he has a good point.
“I have to go, Dillion.” I tug the door from his grip. “Good-bye.”
I want to pretend that Dillion doesn’t exist, but I can’t stop myself from using the rearview mirror to watch him as I drive away.
He’s not completely wrong. Back when we spent all that time chatting via the World Wide Web, he’d seemed like my perfect match. He’d been witty, sweet, and his photo made him look like a hottie. Granted, ‘accountant’ hadn’t sounded as exciting as the professions held by the heroes in the romance novels I can’t stop reading, but still, he seemed perfect for me.
Just like Dan, and that cute orchestra player I dated a few months back, and the lawyer, and the chef, and the fifty or so other guys I’ve gone out with.
Why, I wonder, do the men in my life have to turn out to be duds? Why can’t just one of them be as good as their profile makes them sound?
Chapter Eleven
Erin
My phone buzzes, startling me. I grab it just as the force of the vibration setting sends it scurrying across my desk, and tap the text message icon. My heart stumbles and a surge of hot, liquid heat sweeps through me as I read who sent the te
xt. I tap the name and three words appear on my phone’s screen.
Where are you?
Mister No O’s text provides me with a much-needed distraction from my quarterly taxes. I stare at it for a few seconds. Maybe he’s decided that it’s time we have a face-to-face meeting. The prospect makes my heart pound and has me pressing my thighs together. Common sense might insist that the real-life version of him can’t possibly measure up to the virtual god my overactive imagination has managed to create, but my body doesn’t want to listen to common sense.
It’s only interested in one thing. Strange, since it’s never been excited before. I square my shoulders and make a mental note to resist the temptation of dialing his number.
In my office.
I hold my breath as I wait for a follow-up text. Luckily, I don’t have to wait for long.
Which is where?
An unexpected burst of anticipation rockets through me. Is it possible that the mysterious Mr. No O is going to pay me a visit?
The Rochester Building on E Pennington Street. My marketing business is on the eighth floor.
Idiot, my common sense hisses. The only thing I know about this man is that he has a voice that makes my panties damp and that he’s some sort of sex guru. He could be a serial killer or human trafficker and I just gave him an exact location.
Sometimes, like right now, my common sense is overly paranoid.
An incoming text distracts me from my inner war.
Is anyone with you?
Err, strange question. Maybe I should give my common sense more credit.
Why?
