“You’ve only played it safe because it’s all you’ve experienced. I’m not saying you have to take crazy risks. And there’s nothing wrong with vanilla . . . unless you want chocolate or strawberry. Do you even know if you want chocolate or strawberry?”
I picture the artisan ice cream shop down the street. “Honestly, I kind of like that birthday cake with blueberry flavor at Salt and Straw.”
Perri holds up her hands. “My point exactly. Have you ever had birthday cake with blueberry flavor in bed?”
I blink. “What would that even be?”
“Not missionary, that’s all I know.”
I laugh. “That’s for sure. I tried to get Phillipe to mix it up. One time, I thought I would go all sexy on him. I took the initiative and dressed in come-hither lingerie—a white demi-cup bra and high-cut panties, and I climbed on top of him in bed when he was reading.”
“And what did the missionary man do?”
I snort at the memory. “He said something sexy in French, and I was sure I was finally going to learn what it was like to be thrown down on the bed, to be yanked up on all fours. Hell, to have my ass smacked, and my hair pulled, and my panties ripped off.”
“Uh. Yeah.”
I shake my head as I recall what went down. “Instead, he tossed his book to the side, slid me underneath him, and made love to me, whispering sweet nothings in French the whole time.”
“Boring. But the French dirty talk is a nice touch, so we can’t dock him all the points.”
“True. He deserves a minor commendation for his ability to say swoony things, like je te veux tellement. But being taken would have been better, right?”
“Mais oui.” Perri laughs. “I can absolutely confirm that being taken is often better than being talked to. Give me a strong, silent, tatted-up man on a motorcycle who throws me down on the couch, and all he has to do is grunt, Fuck. Now.”
“A caveman is all you require?”
She shrugs in a way that conveys her answer. “Pretty much.”
I pat her shoulder. “I’ll be on the lookout for you.”
“And what about you? What do you want?”
I let her question marinate, trying to figure out what I’m missing. “I don’t need to be Christian Grey’s plaything, and I don’t want to be tied up in the Red Room. But that’s what stung about David’s parting words. He never gave me the chance.” I flash back to that day at Silver Phoenix Lake, but further too, back to all the days with him. “Though, honestly, I never took the chance either. I never asked for anything else. And I honestly wouldn’t mind finding out if other positions are how they make them out to be in books.”
“I bet Mr. Businessman would have helped you find out.”
I sigh. “Now I’ll never know what Mr. Businessman really wants, or if he likes birthday cake sex.”
She nudges me. “Also, seriously. How did you miss the signs? The dude bought Hidden Figures and The Nightingale and asked your opinion on them, and you didn’t realize he was asking you out?”
I offer up a lame, “He might have been buying them for a girlfriend.”
“And tonight you learned he was buying them as conversational lubricant to talk to you.”
We reach our favorite bar and head inside, where I order a white wine and she asks for a beer.
She taps the bar. “I think it’s time to find out if you have a little Ana in you.”
“Whoa. I am not submissive.”
“Hello! I meant the sexy elevator kiss. It’s time to find out if you’d like being kissed hard in an elevator.”
My body tingles with the memory of that scene. The way he grabbed her wrists. Pinned them above her head. He took her kiss. “Yes, please. I’ll have one hot, sexy elevator kiss to go. Trouble is, how do I get it? You’re bold enough to ask out guys you like. How do you do it?”
“I’m naturally a big mouth. But bear in mind, there’s a flip side. A lot of guys think because I have a badge and a uniform, that means I want to lock them up and throw away the key, or be smacked with a billy club.”
“But don’t you just love all that?”
“I like other things, and I often ask for it. My point is this.” She tips her beer bottle in my direction. “The next time a hottie in your bookstore asks you out, say yes. It’s that simple.”
But is it? Is it truly that simple? I wish I could feel as comfortable with other guys as I do with Gabe. Maybe then I’d have a clue what they want.
8
Arden
Bullseye.
Look at that. I can rock a dartboard like nobody’s business. It’s so much easier than saying yes to a date with a guy and having my sexual prowess, or lack thereof, labeled as vanilla once again.
“And on that note, looks like I’m in line to take home the winner’s trophy tonight,” I say to Gabe.
He arches a brow. “Oh, do we have trophies? Where are they? I didn’t see any when I walked in.” He scans the tables and the bar in the game room at the Pin-Up Lanes.
“I ordered some. They’re on the way over.” I strut past him, feeling confident about my chances to win at darts tonight. I tap my index finger to my tongue and touch the air, making a sizzling sound. I don’t freeze up at darts. Nice girls can play darts, evidently.
He chuckles, shaking his head. “East, you’ve got another think coming.”
I straighten my spine as he raises his arm. “Wait. You said ‘think.’”
“I did. Now, I know this is your trick to try to knock me off my game, so move along, honey. Move along.” He tries to shoo me away from him.
“No one says that. It’s like intents and purposes. Almost everyone thinks the phrase is ‘intensive purposes’ when it’s intents and purposes.”
“Or stock and trade when it’s stock-in-trade. Don’t be so surprised that I understand etymology. I’ve got beauty and brains.” He taps his skull, flashing me an over-the-top smile.
“I just hardly ever hear anyone say You’ve got another think coming.”
“I can say another thing coming if you want,” he says in a sexy drawl.
One I like more than I should.
I laugh to dispel the effects I’m feeling from the elixir of pleasure that is his hot, husky voice. “You know how I feel about words. I like when they’re used correctly.”
“I do indeed know that about you.” The fact is, Gabe knows a lot about me. It’s funny, or maybe not so funny, how someone seeing you at your worst can forge an instant friendship and a tight-knit bond. That’s exactly what happened with us.
“Hey, did your mom like the Sandra Brown?”
“Loved it. She also said she felt like a little scofflaw, reading it early.”
I place my index finger on my lips. “Shh. Don’t tell the book’s publisher, or I will be in some kind of hot water.”
“Oh, so I have leverage over you now. What are you going to do to ensure I protect your secrets?”
“Bribe you by keeping Mama Harrison in top secret, embargoed copies of popular books that I only give early to her?”
He furrows his brow like he’s considering this, then extends his free hand. “Deal.” Then he shoos me off. “Now stop trying to distract me. You’re terrible at it anyway. You’re also not the only one with impeccable aim.” He raises his arm above his head and narrows his eyes. He cocks his arm, his eyes lasering on the target. For a moment, I let myself enjoy the view.
I mean, I am great friends with a hottie.
Gabe is crazily handsome in a how-is-it-possible-to-be-that-good-looking way. His blue eyes are the kind to get lost in and his arms are ideal to wrap around and comfort you.
I don’t know the nitty-gritty of his dating life, but he’s rarely without female companionship. A few weeks ago, he took out the woman who cut his hair. I bet she was bold enough not to botch a date request. And I bet I could ask him for tips on what men really want. Perhaps we could sit down, I could take some notes, and I’d be good to go. Ready for the next Mr. Businessm
an situation before it goes belly-up.
His dart makes a beeline for the target but misses. I thrust my arms in the air in victory. “I’ve still got it.”
He offers a hand for high-fiving, and I smack back. “Pizza is on me,” Gabe says.
“Is it a pizza night?”
“Of course.”
“Oh, right. You’re having a long-standing love affair with pizza.”
He laughs. “See, Arden? You know me so well.”
And I do. I know what Gabe wants. He’s easy to understand. If only I could apply these friendship skills to the dating game. If I could take the ease I have with him and transfer it to dating, I’d feel . . . empowered.
I let that word roll around in my head, and it hits me. Empowered is exactly what I want to feel.
As we head to the bar in the bowling alley to order a cheese pie, my friend Vanessa stops by our table, her dark-brown locks curled up at the ends, ’50s-style, just like her bowling alley. The entire place is a throwback to the Happy Days life, complete with vintage posters and a retro theme. Makes sense, since she’s always been the queen of vintage. Tonight, she wears a red-and-white gingham skirt and a white cap-sleeved retro blouse.
“Are you playing waitress this evening?” I tease, since I know she’s the chief cook and bottle—and bowling ball—washer when she needs to be.
“I do it all. But mostly I want to remind you two to come to the fundraiser this weekend.”
Gabe laughs. “As if I’d miss it. I’ll be here with the guys.” He points to me. “And you and I have some games to play, so you better save some lane time for me.”
“Count on it.”
See? Saying yes to Gabe is easy because he’s a friend. Friends are easy to understand.
And because we’re friends, I’m starting to formulate a plan. It’s the seed of an idea now, but I’ll spend time with it, tweak it, refine it.
After we eat our pizza, he asks if I’m up for a game of bowling.
I say yes. It’s good practice, after all, and I need time to devise my plan.
I need to practice saying yes when I want to, and I intend to do precisely that.
9
Gabe
I’ve been called many things.
Pain in the ass, by my sister.
Top prospect, by the major leagues.
Playboy, charmer, and ladies’ man, and any and every combination of those.
I’m not saying any of those terms are wrong.
But I do have to wonder what the hell is wrong with being a ladies’ man?
Women are basically the best thing ever. They’re beautiful, lovely, witty, clever, and a whole hell of a lot of fun to spend time with.
Women are my favorite gender.
My best friend in high school was Lacey Cunningham, a soccer star. In college I was tight with Vivian Wells, who was a goddess at grammar. And now, here I am with Arden. She is fit as a fox in that plaid skirt and matching red tank top, and I want to ask why the hell she likes to bowl in a skirt, but I also don’t want her to ever consider bowling in anything but a skirt.
“So how was the hair stylist?” she asks, inquiring about a date from a few weeks, maybe a month ago.
“It was fine.”
“Fine?”
“Yes. Fine.” I grab a green ball.
“Fine is not an answer,” she says, egging me on. “Are you seeing her again?”
“She was a lovely lady, but there was no, how shall we say, spark.”
She pouts playfully. “Poor Gabe. No spark must have made you so lonely.”
“Oh, I didn’t say I was lonely.”
She swats me. “You’re such a pig.”
I oink.
“But why would you sleep with her if there was no spark?”
“Oh, there was a physical spark. She’s a fiery one.”
“So she was naughty?” Arden asks carefully, as if she’s measuring her words.
“Maybe a little, but there’s nothing wrong with that.”
Arden nods, humming. “Nope. Nothing wrong with that at all. How was she naughty though?”
The question comes out like she’s asking it in class, and her tone makes me laugh. “Are you taking notes?”
“Yes. I’m working on a report for the town bulletin.” Her tone is 100 percent deadpan.
“I don’t want to kiss and tell, and definitely not for the same bulletin where Pedro Hardaway advertises his plumbing services and Sally Caruso offers dog sitting by the hour. So stop using your superior powers of persuasion to try to get me to give up all sorts of details, and get focused on your game, woman. I want to beat you.” I head to the lane and take my first shot, sending the ball straight to the finish line.
“Did she have a riding crop and ask you to hit her with it?” Arden asks as the ball slams into eight pins.
It’s a damn good thing I wasn’t throwing the ball when she asked that because it might have landed five lanes over.
Cracking up, I head over to the ball return. “That’s a little specific and definitely inappropriate for a town bulletin.”
“Did she like to be tied up?”
I shake my head. “Not going to go there.”
When the green ball pops up, I palm it then slide my fingers in the holes. She follows my hand with her eyes. “Do you mean she likes to be . . . filled in all the holes?”
I laugh so hard I nearly choke. “Who has the naughty mind tonight? I was simply getting ready to throw a spare.”
She doesn’t even blush. She’s undeterred. “Did she ask you out on the date?”
I frown, trying to remember who asked first. I shrug. “I honestly don’t recall.”
“You’re not helpful. You won’t answer my questions, and you won’t tell me how it started.”
“That’s partly because it’s not going to continue. I’m not seeing her again.” I return to the lane and send the ball down the hardwood, waiting until it smacks the remaining two pins, nailing the spare. When I turn around, I ask, “Why do you want to know so badly what it was like?”
Arden has never pumped me for dating details before. Not the tawdry ones at least. I half want to believe it means something, but it could mean nothing at all.
“Just curious,” she says nonchalantly as she grabs her favorite purple ball. She makes it sound so casual, her inquiry. But there’s that word again from Words with Friends—curious—and it snags on my brain. Why exactly is she so curious?
A second later, she gives me the answer. “Everyone’s coming into the bookstore buying these racier books. It just got me thinking.”
She turns away, heads to the top of the lane, and holds the ball in front of her.
And her comment has me thinking too.
About dirtier books.
If she reads them.
What she likes between the sheets.
What her curiosity has piqued exactly. Well, besides me. I’m definitely piqued, and I make a quick adjustment in my jeans so it’s not so damn obvious.
As she tosses the ball down the lane, her left leg arcing behind her, showing a hint of the back of her thighs, I groan.
I want to know the landscape of her body. Want to slide my hands up and down her legs, nibble on her ass, and make her whimper.
I would love to know what would make Arden go wild in bed.
That’s not only because I’m wildly attracted to her.
It’s because I want to know what makes her tick in the bedroom as well as I know what excites her out of it.
I want to know her in every way.
Sooner or later, I’m going to have to figure out how to drive this car clear out of the friend zone.
Sooner is my preference.
Like maybe this weekend at the party here at the bowling alley.
Maybe I can find a way to pique her interest in me.
10
Arden
“What kind of wine would you say goes well with a memoir? Something really hard-hitting and designed to ri
p my heart out?”
The question comes from a bespectacled woman who’s pawing through my display of non-fiction bestsellers.
“Like Educated by Tara Westover?”
“Yes. Exactly.”
I tap my chin. This is my forte. “You definitely want a merlot. It’s bold and powerful, but the best ones with the most fantastic grapes are so good, they make you want to cry.”
“Like Educated.” Her lips curve into a grin, her laugh lines a happy pair of parentheses.
“Exactly. Want me to set everything up for your book club?”
“Yes. It’s going to be a raucous night of…”
“Drinking wine and only very occasionally discussing books?”
“That’s exactly what a good book club should be.” The woman extends a hand. “I’m Miriam.”
“Arden East.”
“Someone likes you very much to give you that name.”
“My mom is pretty rad,” I say, thinking of my parents, who are happily traveling the world in their much-deserved retirement. This month they’re in Australia and sent me an email about their visit to the Sydney Opera House. “It’s better than all the travel books say,” my mom told me.
Miriam points to the nook in the back of the store, reserved for book clubs. “Is tomorrow night available? We plan on being loud and a little obnoxious.”
“As if I would want you to be anything else,” I tell her with a smile. “The store closes at eight on book club nights with my rowdiest gals. Would that work for a starting time?”
Miriam’s blue eyes sparkle with a yes.
The next evening, she parades in a troop of women about twice my age and introduces me to CarolAnn, who wears her jet-black hair in a sexy, messy bun; to Sara, sporting cat-eye glasses and skinny jeans; and to hobo-chic-styled Allison, who tells me I’m beautiful.
Possibly, I fall in love with all of them on first sight.
I busy myself with placing orders on the store computer at the front while the ladies discuss Educated and drink a rich merlot from Oak Hollows Vineyard, a few miles south of us. But soon enough, the wine loosens lips, and the conversation shifts.
The Lucky in Love Collection Page 5
