by Lexi Ryan
Something in the back of my mind warned me that this was the real reason I’d never asked a woman for more than sex. She doesn’t want you, it warned. “I—” And when I told her another woman was going to have my baby? Did I really expect that to help my cause? “A friend gave me some news this morning and I wondered if I could take you out. Talk to you about it.”
“I’m kind of busy.” She looked away. “No expectations, Sam. But that goes both ways, okay? I don’t want this to be all awkward now.”
She’d taken what I offered, but she didn’t want more. I swallowed hard, wanting to say something more than goodbye. “You’re special, Rowdy. Sometimes I get the feeling you don’t actually know that.”
“I’m just a girl who needed a good lay. Thanks for that.”
Her words were dull and sharp all at once and sawed their way into my chest like a rusty serrated blade. “I don’t even know what to make of you.”
“Do you really need to know?” She shifted awkwardly then. “Can you do me a favor? Don’t tell anyone about our little . . . indiscretion? I’d like to keep it our secret. I don’t want people getting the wrong idea about me.”
I wish I could say that was the first time in my life a woman had made me feel cheap, like a dirty secret she didn’t want the world to know about. I wish she’d been the first to make me feel I had no purpose to her outside the bedroom. Maybe if I hadn’t been so adept at that kind of relationship with women, I would have fought harder for her. Maybe she would have been my girl and last summer would have never happened. “Who would I tell?” I asked.
And so I went to the gym and I had a long, sweaty workout, pushing myself until the ache in my gut transformed into a throbbing protest from screaming lungs and exhausted muscles. I never told anyone about my night with Liz, and I never told anyone about Asia, never told a soul that I was going to be a father and that I was thrilled and excited and terrified all at once.
I didn’t have to tell anyone because Asia used my money to get herself some new furniture, and a nice little cushion in her savings account, and the next time I heard from her, she was calling to tell me she’d had the abortion and that she didn’t want to hear from me again.
Chapter Three
Liz
When I get home, the house is eerily quiet. Most nights I miss the days Hanna and I lived here together. She’s my twin sister and best friend. We grew up sharing a room and went on to share a dorm and then this house in college. I miss having her here, but tonight, I’m glad for the privacy because I have an anonymous stranger who wants to chat when I get into bed.
I take a shower, shampoo my hair, and wash the smell of bar and Harry off my skin. Instead of the yoga pants and sweatshirt I typically choose in the winter, I put on a thin black slip that slides over my skin and makes me feel sexy as hell. He won’t be seeing me, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want to feel good—sexy is a state of mind, after all.
I grab my laptop and climb into bed. Even though we both have the chat client on our phones, we do the majority of our chatting from keyboards; it’s so much easier to type out significant chunks of text that way.
I wriggle into my pillows and power up my computer. My chat client opens immediately, and I can’t help but smile when I see the green light by his name.
Tink24: Wait for me long?
Riverrat69: It was worth it. How are you feeling?
Tink24: Better since I showered the reminder of tonight’s date off me.
Riverrat69: That doesn't sound good. Do I need to find this guy and kick his ass?
Tink24: Ha! Thanks for the offer, but it was nothing like that. I’m just feeling . . . frustrated.
Riverrat69: Romantically or sexually?
Tink24: Both, to be honest.
Riverrat69: It blows my mind that a girl like you doesn’t have guys lining up outside her door.
Tink24: A girl like me? What does that mean?
Riverrat69: Funny. Smart. Sexy as fuck.
Tink24: You’ve never seen me. How do you know I’m sexy?
Riverrat69: You can tell a lot from a girl’s hip . . . and the kind of panties she wears.
Tink24: Well, my looks have never been my problem. I’m not saying I’m a knockout, but there are always guys willing to sleep with me if that’s what I want.
Riverrat69: But you want . . . something more.
Tink24: I do. I won’t apologize for that. Why don’t you?
Riverrat69: I did once. It didn’t turn out like I’d hoped.
Tink24: What does that mean?
I squeeze my eyes shut, full aware of what a mind-fuck I’m putting myself through by having this conversation with Maybe Sam, trying to read too much into everything he says.
I exhale slowly and open my eyes to see the cursor still blinking at me—no reply from him. I should back down from my too-personal question.
Tink24: You don’t have to answer that.
Riverrat69: No. It’s okay. I’m just not sure how to answer. Don’t settle, okay? I know you're looking for a meaningful relationship and it can be frustrating, but don’t settle for someone who doesn’t make your heart race.
Sam makes my heart race. You make my heart race, I type, but then I hold down the delete key until the words disappear.
Riverrat69: Tell me about your dream guy. What’s he like?
I stare at my computer for a long time, my heart pounding. Once, I’d thought Sam was my dream guy. I wanted him for so long, and when we finally got together, it was . . . perfect. Hot and sexy, but also intense in a way I would almost describe as emotional. I have no one to blame but myself for any expectations I had after that night. Sam warned me he wasn’t interested in forever.
“I don’t do emotional strings.”
And silly, naive me. I thought he wanted me to save him, to be the one who changed that about him.
I went to his house and saw him with her. Some woman I didn’t even recognize. It wasn’t fair to be hurt by what I saw. He hadn’t made me any promises. But the way he held her. The way he was looking at her.
He hadn’t wanted me to fix him, but he was looking at her like she had. And seeing that broke my heart.
Riverrat69: Never mind. That’s stupid.
Shaking my head, I put my fingers back on my keyboard. I want to type: Is this Sam Bradshaw? But I don’t. I’m not ready to know for sure yet. More, I’m not ready for him to know who I am.
Tink24: It’s not stupid, just not an easy question to answer.
Riverrat69: Try?
Tink24: My sister’s fiancé bought her a dog. Not a puppy—they have two infants, so a puppy would just be cruel. He bought her a dog. Her name is Nana, like the dog in Peter Pan. She’s a sweet thing and she’s used to kids, but her original owner realized their child was allergic, so they needed to find a new home.
Her fiancé is a good guy, and I always liked him, but when he brought home that dog, I think I fell in love with him. What woman wouldn’t love a man who buys her a dog?
Riverrat69: So you want a man who will buy you a dog?
Tink24: I want a man who knows when I need a dog.
I frown. These obscure, personal-but-vague conversations have become the norm for us. The sad thing is, even without personal details and even while trying to protect my own identity, I feel more connected with this man than I have with any of the dates I’ve been on in the last eight months. That scares me. I’m starting to wonder if I’m doomed to be single forever.
Riverrat69: I hope you find him. I do.
Tink24: Enough about me. How was your day?
Riverrat69: That picture just about killed me this morning. Do you have any idea how hard it is to finish a business meeting when a beautiful woman sends you a picture of her ass?
Tink24: Sorrynotsorry?
Riverrat69: You’re the whole package. Brains, body, humor. You make me . . .
Tink24: What?
Riverrat69: You make me believe there could be more. You make me want something
more.
Tink24: You’ve always been clear on the score.
I hesitate for a minute, and then type.
Tink24: What if we know each other? I mean, outside of Something Real.
I hold my breath as I wait for his response. Either the oxygen deprivation makes time slow to a crawl or it takes longer than usual for him to reply.
Riverrat69: New Hope is a small place. It’s possible we do.
I start to type Do you live in New Hope now? but I erase it before I can send it. The question would break our unspoken agreement to keep this anonymous. And, if I’m honest, there’s part of me that likes the anonymity. Almost as if knowing his name makes him real, and once he’s real I have to let him go to make room for the real relationship I promised myself I’d find.
I roll to my stomach and, settling the laptop in front of me, reposition the screen so the camera is aimed right at my exposed cleavage. I attach the pic to a new message and send it, my way of reminding myself exactly what this is and what it isn’t.
Riverrat69: Jesus. You’re killing me.
Tink24: I like thinking of you looking at me. Even if only one tiny piece at a time.
Riverrat69: This morning, when you sent that picture, all I could think about was taking those panties off you. My dick was so hard, I could hardly focus at my meeting.
Tink24: Tell me what you were focusing on.
Riverrat69: How I want to tie you to the bed and undress you while you watch. I want to taste every inch of you—starting at your neck and working my way down. I’d kiss your breasts and your belly, and when I finally reached your legs, I’d spread them wide so I could look at you before I pressed my face between your thighs.
Something feels off for a minute—the coldness of the black words on the white screen—but then I close my eyes and imagine Sam whispering those words in my ear, and I have to squeeze my legs together to shut out the ache there. The movement only makes it worse. This is torture. I need to stop or I need more—to meet him, to know his name, to take him up on all the suggestions he’s made over the last few weeks.
Riverrat69: Sleep well, sexy. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.
I watch the little green light by his screen name change to gray and then stare dumbly at the screen for a few moments. I close my computer, bury my face into my pillow, and scream.
* * *
A girl could gain five pounds just by walking into this bakery, and I would gladly grow a gut and a couple of extra chins if it meant that I got to continue this early-morning tradition for the rest of my life.
The bell rings as I push through the glass doors and into my twin sister’s bakery, Coffee, Cakes, and Confections. Our oldest sister, Krystal, is working behind the counter this morning, organizing the coffee filters or something. She came in last Christmas and started managing the place for Hanna while Hanna had to be on pregnancy bed rest. When Hanna came back after the twins were born, she kept Krystal so she could focus on the baking and take more time off. And, honestly, Krystal’s good at running this place—better at it than I was, not that Hanna ever complained.
“Good morning, Liz,” Krystal says. “Coffee?”
“Please. And could you dump, like, half a cup of that caramel sauce into it?”
Krystal, ever the health-conscious one, raises an eyebrow but does as I ask. I help myself to a chocolate croissant. Life is too short to not eat Hanna’s chocolate croissants. Seriously.
“I heard you had another date last night,” Krystal says, handing me my coffee.
“Where did you hear that?” I ask around a bite of chocolate and pastry dough. Jesus, this crap is good.
“New Hope Tattler,” she informs me.
I scowl. “Why do they care about my love life? Is there seriously nothing more interesting happening in this town?”
“There was a full spread about Hanna’s wedding too,” Krystal says. She shrugs. “It’s New Hope. What’s there to say?”
“Is the bride-to-be in the back?”
“Elbow deep in fondant,” Krystal says.
“Nowhere else I’d rather be,” Hanna calls from the kitchen.
Grinning, I take my coffee and croissant and follow the sound of her voice. “Isn’t there a rule about how brides shouldn’t make their own wedding cakes?” I ask when I spot her rolling a thin sheet of fondant icing. I used to hate the crap, but that was because I’d never tried Hanna’s.
“If there is, it’s a stupid rule,” she says. She’s glowing today. Come to think of it, she’s been glowing every day since Nate moved to town, and then her radiance tripled after she had her twin girls.
My heart tugs with the potent cocktail of envy and happiness I’ve grown accustomed to feeling every time I’m near her. There’s no one in the world who deserves happiness as much as my twin, and I could kiss Nate’s feet for giving it to her. But I so badly want a little of what she has. I want it so much it almost hurts.
“How was the date last night?” she asks.
“So you didn’t read about it in the Tattler?”
She rolls her eyes. “I did. Right before I read about how Taylor Swift is rumored to be one of my bridesmaids.”
I snort. “Fair enough, so the Tattler isn’t always accurate, but anything horrible it said about my date with Harry was sadly probably true.”
“It said he was a fifty-two-year-old carpet salesman from Terre Haute,” she says with a cocked brow.
I wrinkle my nose. “He said he was thirty-four, but he may have been fudging by a couple of decades.”
“That bad?”
I shrug. “It’s not really about his age. I could go for a George Clooney older-man type. But there was absolutely no spark.”
“You tried to find a spark?”
“He cornered me when I came out of the bathroom. Shoved his tongue down my throat in case I was hiding it there.” I shake my head. “Then Sam appeared out of nowhere.”
“Where were you again?”
“Brady’s.”
“You’ve gotta stop taking dates to Brady’s if you don’t want to run into Sam.”
But maybe I want to run into Sam. Maybe I miss Sam. But I shake my head and take another bite of my croissant. Hanna knows about what happened with my Super Summer Screw-Up, and how much it changed my relationship with Sam. Not that there was a relationship to change . . . exactly. I wish he’d be more rational about it, but when it comes to Della, Sam isn’t the analytical thinker he is every day at the bank. When it comes to Della, Sam is one hundred percent protective big brother.
I chase my pastry with sugar-laced coffee and finally feel a little better.
“How’s the job hunt going?” she asks.
I’m going to make a T-shirt that says, “Nope, still don’t have a boyfriend, still don’t have a job.” It would be for everyone else to reference, of course. Hanna’s allowed to ask. “Nothing. How sad is it that I’m twenty-four years old and still don’t know what I want to be when I grow up?”
“You can work here,” she offers.
“You’re the best for offering, but I’m determined to make it on my own. I’m a big girl now.”
“It’s too bad Della had to let your personal issues poison your business relationship. You were a great preschool teacher.”
“Can I borrow those rose-colored glasses of yours?” I ask. “Because I was a terrible preschool teacher, and I pretty much hated it.” I scrub my hands over my face. Sam’s sister, Della, and I both have Elementary Education degrees, and last year when we couldn’t find jobs, we decided to open our own preschool. It was all fine and dandy until she decided I was a harlot who must be thrust from her life.
Truth be told, I miss Della and our friendship more than I miss the preschool. As much as I always thought I wanted to work with kids, I found myself watching the clock every day, anxious for the minute I could leave the school and tell dirty jokes and curse like a sailor—in other words, be myself.
“You’ll find something,” Hanna says. “I know
you will.”
“Are you all set for this weekend?” I ask to change the subject.
Hanna beams. “I think so. I can’t believe it’s finally here.”
“Well, let me know if you need anything. I’ve got plenty of free time on my hands.” I press a kiss to Hanna’s happily flushed cheek and then head back to the front of the bakery, where I find Mr. Bradshaw, Sam’s father, standing at the counter, a cup of coffee in his hand.
“Mr. Bradshaw. How are you this morning?”
“It’s a beautiful day. I think I smell the first snow in the air. Haven’t seen your mother around headquarters much, Elizabeth. Where’s she been keeping herself?” He hands several bills to Krystal, who blushes prettily under his attention. “Keep the change.”
“She’s been busy helping with my nieces,” I tell him. “Between having twin girls and running a business, Hanna needs all the help she can get. But I know Mom’s a supporter, and you have her vote.”
