Heart of Gold: A Mountain Man's Valentine

by Frankie Love

  But of course.

  Because Cooper always has a model-worthy-woman on his arm.

  “Just calling it a night early,” I tell him, smiling so hard my shoulders practically touch my ears in my weird reaction to this encounter. My lady bits are all jumbled and confused between Bridget’s sex dungeon and Cooper’s hot breath and the reality of my night alone and knowing that Cooper is about to have wild sex next door.

  It’s all a little crazy making.

  So, I just laugh in a high-pitched hysterical way, turn around, and jam my key in the door with such force there’s no choice but for it to open.

  “You okay there?” he asks. “You can come over, you know, if you’re just going to be alone. You can have some fun with us. When’s the last time you did what you really wanted?”

  He raises an eyebrow, and the Amazon princess in underwear laughs –– you know that laugh that is both non-committedly annoying and yet still manages to turn every single man on since forever?

  Pretty much the opposite of my maniacal sound from about six seconds ago.

  “Right. Sounds super fun, but I’m good, thanks.” I smile tightly, and close the door behind me. I know Cooper doesn’t really want me to come over for some ménage-a-trois. He was just being nice.

  There’s a knock on the door. I sigh, not wanting their love-fest to be thrown in my face, yet I manage to open it and see Cooper standing there, his date inside his now open apartment. I see her strutting down his hall, dropping her sort-of-dress on the floor. Ass cheeks bare.

  Wowzers.

  “Yes?” I ask, trying to reconcile the onslaught of naked people I’ve seen tonight. I have never stripped for anyone like this model-like female is for Cooper or like Bridget was for her swinger friends. Not even when I was in a relationship.

  Cooper rests against my doorframe. “I just wanted to wish you a Happy New Year, Gracie.”

  “Well, thanks, Cooper. Likewise.” I swallow, not wanting to say something insane. Like, forget the supermodel, come in here, with me. Your strait-laced neighbor who maybe wants to do something reckless.

  Of course, I don’t. Cooper is Cooper and I’m Gracie. The girl who is so out of touch with her vajayjay it’s embarrassing.

  “I’ll be around tomorrow, so I can help with the sink.”

  I scrunch my nose in confusion.

  “Your leaky sink?” he adds as if trying to clarify.

  Is that another sex thing? My pulse quickens. He wants to help with my leaky sink?!

  Before I can figure out what it means exactly ... Cooper adds, “I saw your note on the Sup’s door. Knowing him, he hasn’t gotten anyone to come fix it. But I can handle a dripping faucet.”

  “Right,” I breathe, realizing this isn’t some Urban Dictionary slang I’m out of date on.

  My “dripping faucet” is in my kitchen. Literally.

  Even though something else is dripping right now –– which, never mind. OMG. This is a new low.

  “See you then,” Cooper says, smirking at me, before walking away.

  I lock my door, drop my purse, kick off my heels, and stick my head in the freezer.

  I’m alone.

  Sexually frustrated.

  And desperate for a change.

  It’s time I sat down and made some resolutions.

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