by Sarah Smith
I hang my head over the side of the bed to peek at Lemon, who’s snoozing underneath. That’s been her resting spot of choice ever since I brought her home. I smile at the soft wheezing noise she makes.
I settle back on the bed. A tiny mass of heat simmers at the base of my chest, causing me to flush every single time I think about him. It also makes an appearance whenever I catch a glimpse of him at work. It doesn’t matter that each time I’ve seen him since the Little Beach incident he’s been fully clothed, or that we haven’t exchanged anything more than an accidental few seconds of eye contact. Even the recent uptick in customers and social media coverage due to our turf war have done little to curb the near-constant impure thoughts I’m having about him.
You’d think that having nonstop lunch and dinner rushes would keep my mind occupied—it doesn’t—or that seeing our food truck blow up on social media due to our new rivalry with Hungry Chaps would be a distraction—it isn’t.
It doesn’t matter that whenever I check Facebook, Twitter, or Instagram, I’m bombarded with hashtags like #mauifoodtruckwars, #tivasvschaps, #EnglandvsPhilippines, and everything else related to our rivalry. Because all of that ends up being a reminder of Callum and the fact that I can’t get him out of my head.
Flipping to my side, I pull a pillow over my face. At least Mom and I are getting along again. She accepted my apology after my outburst and is back to working a healthy number of hours. She went gaga over Lemon when I brought her home, too, which helped ease the tension between us. We’ve also developed a couple new recipes for the food festival and are testing them out at the food truck as featured lunch specials. Both regulars and new customers have been raving, giving us the confidence boost we’ll need to bring our A game to the festival. Now if only I could get a proper night’s sleep.
Every time I close my eyes, Callum’s flawless form shows up like an ill-timed highlight reel. It takes at least an hour of tossing and turning to fall asleep, which then means groggy mornings. I can’t handle another night of less than six hours of sleep.
Pushing the pillow off my face, I sigh.
If I were a guy, I know exactly how I would handle this. I’d jerk off, enjoy the temporary bliss, then fall asleep. Such a simple solution, but there’s no chance. Callum is my competition, the person standing in the way of my business and my livelihood.
I close my eyes and breathe in the salty sea air wafting through my open bedroom window. I could never, ever do such a thing.
Could I?
Instead of scolding myself internally like I normally would when a bad idea crosses my mind, I let it unfold. Maybe indulging in one lustful, purely carnal moment wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world. No one is holding me to these ridiculous standards other than myself. It’s not like anyone would ever know that I pleasured myself with impure thoughts of my enemy. I wouldn’t tell anyone.
Men do this sort of thing all the time. Why the hell can’t I?
I adjust the pillow behind my back and eye the drawer of my nightstand. May as well give it a shot.
I pull out my vibrator and press it against the crotch of my panties. I don’t even bother to lower the fabric. At this point, I’m so hot that not even a chastity belt could quell the flames inside me. Days of Callum’s naked image bombarding me combined with the sweet memory of him cuddling Lemon have had quite an effect.
I close my eyes and lean back. Already I’m trembling.
I switch it to the highest setting. This will be quick and dirty. Nothing lingering or sweet about it.
The vibrations hit, and immediately my toes curl, my jaw drops, and I’m moaning up a storm. Thank Christ Mom is sleeping with the fan on high in her room due to tonight’s heat wave. Fingers crossed it will muffle any and all background sounds.
Callum’s face flashes across the darkness of my eyelids. Those hazel-green eyes, the ski-slope slant of his nose, that jawline sharp enough to cut diamonds. That mouth with those lips, thick lips I’d give anything to bite right about now.
Pressure builds from within my core, and I gasp. Holy shit, I’m nearly there. And it’s barely been a minute.
I pull my hand away and gulp for air. This time I press gently and think of his body. All those hard lines and dense muscle, that warm-hued skin. That surprise between his legs . . . I mean, I should have known. Judging by his height and build, it’s only logical that he’s packing something impressive. But to see it in person, literally feet from my face, is a whole other . . .
I gasp. More pressure, more warmth in my midsection. This is a brand-new level of intensity. With each vibration that rattles through me, I’m pulled closer to the finish line. I’m panting now, aching for the end.
Good God, how is this possible? How is just the visual of Callum’s naked body doing this to me? I can’t stand this guy. Like, would-trade-one-of-my-body-organs-for-the-opportunity-to-punch-his-face type of dislike. But what he does to me physically is unlike anything I’ve experienced before.
I’m not one to fantasize about men I know in real life when I pleasure myself. The thought has always creeped me out. But Callum is the one exception. Because right now, just the thought of him has gotten me hotter faster than the thought of any other man on this planet.
Finally, it hits.
My stomach muscles clench, my calves cramp, and my head falls back. I’m shrieking and moaning at once, in between ragged gulps of air. All I see are white bursts. Stars, I think. Callum has sent me to outer space.
When I collapse back onto the blanket, I let out a pitiful squeal. I’m blinking nonstop because I can’t see clearly. A full minute of panting follows.
That was . . . I have no idea what that was. No self-pleasure session has ever, ever gone that well, that intensely, that quickly in my life.
When my breathing falls back to a seminormal pace, I’m finally able to get my bearings. Every pillow is now on the floor. My sheets lie in a tangled heap underneath me. The hem of my tank top is bunched all the way above my belly button, and my panties are halfway off my hips. Even though there’s no one here to see any of this, I still blush. I’ve managed to make the aftermath of my solo session look like two sex-starved individuals went at it. Go me.
I chuck my vibrator back into the nightstand drawer like it’s on fire. When I crouch down to check on Lemon under the bed, she slow-blinks at me. Clearly, I woke her up.
I bite back a chuckle. “Sorry.”
I pick up all the pillows, toss them back on the bed, straighten out my clothes, and climb under the sheet.
The heat inside me has officially cooled. My eyelids grow heavy. When I blink, I don’t see Callum anymore. Every muscle in my body is relaxed, free of tension at the thought. Soon I’m asleep. It’s deep and hard and everything good.
Until I start to dream.
* * *
• • •
Dream Callum is a million times nicer than real-life Callum.
Dream Callum spoons me from behind, my absolute favorite. How did he know?
He presses his clothes-free body against mine, a perfect shell for my hot and bothered self.
None of this is real. That doesn’t make it any less divine.
He wraps his arms around me. They’re so thick that when pressed against me, they cover most of my naked chest. Leaning back, I groan.
“You like that?” he asks.
I nod a yes, then moan again.
Those thick lips press against the back of my neck. “What do you want, Nikki?”
When his voice is this low, this gentle, it makes my eyes roll to the back of my head. The hottest sound in the world is Callum’s English accent rolling off his tongue in a soft, guttural tone.
I twist my head around so I can get a better look. I make out those expressive eyes, his defined jawline, that perfect pouty mouth.
“You know what I want,” I rasp.
> “Naughty girl.” A smirk completes his admonishment.
He starts a trail of kisses down the side of my neck, to my collarbone, across my breasts. I’m gasping, running my fingers in his honey-blond hair, which looks almost light brown in the dim glow of my bedside lamp.
Those thick lips make easy work of crossing my stomach, gliding down and across, skimming all the way to my hips. Goose bumps fly across every inch of me. When he makes it between my legs, I’m panting.
“I . . . Fuck.”
I can’t talk, I can’t breathe, I can’t see straight. Not when his mouth is this good. I’d give anything to explode right now, to let the pleasure waves wrack my body until I’m a panting, shrieking mound of flesh and bone.
But not yet. I have to get this out. He has to know. And I need to hear him say it.
All I can do to steady myself is tug my fingers through his hair. His smirk widens. He likes it when I’m a little rough, it seems.
His lips land on the inside of my right thigh, then the inside of my left. My head falls back at the feel of his soft lips against the most sensitive patch of skin on my body.
“Wait,” I gasp.
I’m talking to the ceiling with my eyes closed. This won’t do. When I finally connect with his hazel stare, he’s no longer smiling. It’s a frown, but also something more. Something hungry and desperate.
“I just . . . I want you to say you’re sorry . . . for how mean you were . . . when we met.”
It’s a struggle among struggles to get the words out when all I want to do is press his face between my legs and relieve the fire inside me.
His brow lifts a touch, and his expression softens all the way to tender. And then he lowers his face right where I want him. “This is how I say sorry, petal.”
Shrill beeping hits my ears. I open my eyes and turn my head to the alarm clock on my phone.
Alarm. That explains the unwelcome noise. I shut it off, press a pillow over my face, and groan. Cockblocked by my own phone.
“Damn it,” I half yell, half groan.
My bedroom door whips open to reveal Mom peering at me with worried wide eyes. Her hair is pulled back, and she’s donned one of my dad’s old T-shirts, tied into a loose knot at the waist, and a pair of gray leggings. I’ve interrupted her morning calisthenics routines with my sex-dream-induced shouting, it seems.
“Anak, are you okay? Why were you screaming?”
Sitting up, I clutch a pillow to my chest. Why was I screaming? Well, I almost got what was most certainly mind-blowing dream oral sex from my nemesis, but my alarm so rudely interrupted.
I opt for a white lie instead. “I’m fine. I just had a leg cramp. Sorry to wake you.”
Her hand falls against her chest and she nods, then pads out the door. Lemon scurries after her. Mom wishes Lemon good morning in a cheery voice, then there’s a sound of cat food hitting Lemon’s metal dish.
Great. I’m lying to my mom on top of having sex dreams about a guy I don’t even like. And now I’m left with a phantom ache between my legs that I can’t do anything about because I share a home with my mother.
I toss the pillow back on the bed and waddle to the bathroom, wondering how the hell I’m going to get through today’s shift with the star of my hottest sex dream ever working ten feet away from me.
* * *
• • •
I weave through the maze of stalls at the Aloha Maui Farmer’s Market near Kula. The pathways between the vendor stalls are bustling with shoppers checking out the mix of fresh local produce, prepared meals and snacks, and other random goods.
“Do they have any apple bananas?” Mom asks on the other end of the phone.
“They always have apple bananas.” I hold my phone between my chin and shoulder, gripping the handle of the cloth grocery bag in my other hand.
“Good. Joan wants to make those smoothies at our next mahjong night,” she says.
I tell her I’ll pick up a few bunches of apple bananas and that I scored an entire crate of dragon fruit, which I’ll pick up with the car later.
“Oh, that’s good!” she squeals into the phone. “We can make that frozen dragon fruit puree and serve it this weekend for the customers. Everyone loved it the first day we tried it out. I want to do it with tapioca balls this time though.”
Today we’re pulling double duty. She’s at the condo in Kihei trying out a new vegetarian pansit recipe while I’m scouring the farmer’s market for new ingredients. She’s convinced a new recipe will set us apart among competition at the Maui Food Festival. I’m just glad to be out of the house and away from the food truck. When I’m home, I worry about having more vivid sex dreams about Callum, which has happened a couple of times ever since that first night.
I slip my phone back into the pocket of my dress. Even though it’s a Monday, the market is full to the max with locals and tourists. I can’t even make a normal stride with the people around practically pressing up against me. I manage with baby steps, dragging my flip-flops against the ground.
But being in this up-country part of the island is a welcome break from my day-to-day of sweating it out while racing back and forth from Kihei and Big Beach. Kula stretches across the western-facing slopes of Haleakala, Maui’s dormant volcano, which means it’s cooler here most days. I take a slow, silent breath in. I could swear the air feels crisper up here, even though there’s only a couple thousand feet of difference in elevation between here and the shore where I spend most of my time.
Gazing around, I spot Matteo the food blogger. He waves from his nearby booth, where he sells his special brand of essential oils. I offer a head nod, then bump into a blond woman in front of me, her hair in a messy braid.
“Shoot! I’m so sorry. I wasn’t paying attention—”
She twists around to me, squints, then beams. “I know you!”
I focus on her vaguely familiar face, trying to remember where I’ve seen her before.
She squeals before grabbing my elbow and pulling me to the side and away from the crowd. “Nikki DiMarco, right? You and your mom Tiva run that food truck! Oh my God, I love your food! Your whole menu is to die for!”
I let out an embarrassed chuckle. Getting stopped by excited customers has been a common occurrence lately since every food blogger in Maui has posted about the feud between Callum and me. People ask for selfies with Mom or me—sometimes both of us—a handful of times every week. It’s flattering but also unnerving. When we started this food truck, I thought my biggest stress would be cooking good food to earn enough income. I never dreamed I’d have to schmooze and take fan photos.
The bubbly blonde goes on about how the fruit salad is her favorite dessert.
“The vanilla whipped cream makes it so refreshing!” She digs her phone out of her purse and leans back a little, almost like she’s afraid to ask.
“Would you like to take a selfie?” I ask.
Her grin stretches from ear to ear. “Um, duh!”
She wraps one skinny arm around my shoulder, yanking me into a side hug. I grunt at how hard she grips me. She’s much stronger than her tiny frame lets on.
After taking a half dozen selfies on her phone, she squeals again.
“I follow your food truck on social media. I’m your biggest fan!” Holding up her phone to me, she swipes across the screen. “That’s me, @hungrypenelope. I wish I could make it out to your food truck every day for every meal, but then I’d go broke.”
When she laughs, I can’t help but laugh along with her. As awkward as it is to be stopped while going about my daily errands, it’s also flattering. The fact that complete strangers enjoy our food enough to tell us means everything. It makes all this craziness worth it.
I try to match her enthusiasm with a smile. “I love your handle, so funny. And you have such a pretty name.”
She yanks me into anothe
r hug that’s so tight I have to hold my breath. After she releases me, I catch her impressive one-hundred-thousand-plus follower count.
“Whoa,” I mutter.
She waves her hand in the air, like it’s no big deal. “Oh yeah. I do social media for a living.”
I almost ask her what tips she could offer me so I can maximize our online exposure, but she speaks first. “I seriously cannot wait for the Maui Food Festival. Like, seriously. I’m already so excited! You and your mom have my vote, and my friends’ votes too. You’re our favorite place to eat on the island, hands down.”
The smile drops, her face darkening. She peers over her shoulder before leaning toward me, like she’s about to reveal a secret. “By the way, I think what Hungry Chaps did to steal your spot was so uncool. Like, majorly uncool. My ex-boyfriend was like that. Always pulling shady power moves. Completely not okay. Can you believe I moved all the way from Ohio to Maui for a jerk like that?”
She chuckles, clearly unfazed that she’s spilling her relationship history to a practical stranger. Rather than feeling put off, I feel comfort. Penelope seems like a genuinely friendly person. I’m flattered she wants to share something personal with me even though we’ve only known each other minutes.
“But it was worth it because now I live in paradise and I found your amazing food truck. And now I’ve actually met you!” She lets out another squeal before her phone rings. “Shoot, I have to take this. FYI, I saw the Hungry Chaps guys milling around the market a bit ago, so steer clear.”
Penelope walks into the crowd with her phone to her ear before I can thank her for the warning. Best to leave now before I encounter Callum. We tried to play nice at the vet clinic, but that only lasted minutes. The last thing I want is another public confrontation that goes viral. Even if it would drive up business, it’s not worth the stress.
I head toward the other end of the market, then feel a tap on my shoulder. When I turn, there’s Finn James in board shorts, a striped T-shirt, and slip-on shoes, looking like a preppy college student on spring break.
