Table of Contents Dedication Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chap...
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Table of Contents Dedication Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen Chapter Nineteen Chapter Twenty Epilogue Acknowledgments About the Author Also by Tawna Fenske The Fix Up The Hang Up Marine for Hire Fiancée for Hire Best Man for Hire Protector for Hire Eat, Play, Lust If you love erotica, one-click these hot Scorched releases… Ruthless Loving Her Alphas Only for You Surrender to Sin
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental. Copyright © 2017 by Tawna Fenske. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher. Entangled Publishing, LLC 2614 South Timberline Road Suite 109 Fort Collins, CO 80525 Visit our website at www.entangledpublishing.com. Scorched is an imprint of Entangled Publishing, LLC. Edited by Liz Pelletier Cover design by Erin Dameron-Hill Cover art from iStock ISBN 978-1-63375-860-5 Manufactured in the United States of America First Edition January 2017
To all my WolfPack brothers and sisters represented by the divine Wolfson Literary Agency. Thanks for being such a talented, supportive, and caring bunch of wolf pups. Arooooooooo!
Chapter One SIMON “Excuse me? I urgently need more RAM, and I was hoping you could give it to me.” I turn to see a hot blonde wearing cherry-red lipstick and a black dress tight enough to be a tourniquet. Her tone would be more suited for taking calls at 1-900-FuckMe, and the pointed look she just gave my crotch suggests she rehearsed that line before walking into my shop. Yes, my shop. I own all twenty-six branches of Hot Swap Computer Sales and Repairs scattered around the Pacific Northwest, though I rarely venture out of the back room these days. The boob-graze the blonde just performed on my forearm is one reason. “I recognize you from that article in Men’s Health a few months ago,” she continues, moving deeper into my personal space. “‘Meet the young entrepreneur with the mind, muscles, and millions.’ I knew this was the place to come for the best RAM.” “Actually,” I say, taking a step back, “you first need to determine how much RAM you can handle.” Her eyes widen and she licks her lips. “Yes,” she breathes. “I think I can handle a lot.” I point to the other end of the counter. “We’re having a sale on the sixteen-gigabyte HyperX FURY with symmetric heat spreader,” I say, and watch her eyes widen. “Carl over there is our expert. He’ll be to happy help you.” The blonde gives me a confused look, trying to ascertain if I’ve just talked dirty or blown her off. It’s the latter. She seems to realize this as she glances down the counter at the freckled face of my lanky store manager. His exuberant expression and over-enthusiastic wave suggest he will indeed be happy to help her, and may, in fact, be popping a boner behind the counter right this moment. I’d rather not dwell on that. But I do soften my tone when I remove her claws from my forearm. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to finish debriefing a new employee. Thanks for coming to Hot Swap.” I walk away before she can make a suggestive comment about debriefing or ask me what I’ve got that’s plug and play. I know it’s coming. I’ve heard it all before. But I escape without further incident and duck into the back room where my new hire is waiting patiently between a bank of employee lockers and the foosball table I set up for break-time entertainment. Corey’s a cheerful guy with a passion for technology, an infectious laugh, and Down syndrome. He just
finished his first week of employment here through my WorkAbility program. “Sorry about the wait,” I tell him. “Here’s your first paycheck.” His face lights up like I’ve just given him the keys to my Mercedes, which makes my heart swell into a big, fat knot. He takes the envelope and grabs my hand to shake it. “Thank you!” he says, beaming from ear to ear. “Sarah’s coming to come get me, and we’re going to Sizzle Pie to celebrate. Now I can buy whatever she wants for dinner.” Sarah is one of the case managers who run the group home where Corey lives, and as though summoned by her name, she appears at the back door with her car keys in hand. She smiles and greets us both. “Hey, Corey. Hello, Simon. You guys almost finished here?” “Yeah!” Corey beams. “I got my first paycheck and everything.” “You earned every penny,” I tell him. “You’re doing great work here.” I mean it, too. Corey’s one of about four dozen adults with disabilities I’ve hired through WorkAbility since I launched the program four years ago. If I could bottle his enthusiasm and easygoing temperament, I’d sprinkle it on every one of my six hundred plus employees. From her spot in the doorway, Sarah turns her smile on me. It’s not the fuck-me-silly smile deployed by the blonde in the lobby, but there’s an undercurrent I can read just the same. She’s a sweet girl, intelligent and hard-working, and pretty in that girl-next-door kind of way. She also has a steady boyfriend, so even if she were my type, that’s a strict hell-no as far as I’m concerned. “You doing anything fun for the weekend?” she asks me while Corey gathers his things and stuffs them in a big red backpack. “Just catching up on work,” I say. “Probably hitting the gym or going for a hike on Saturday, then having lunch with Junie on Sunday.” Hearing my kid sister’s name makes Sarah smile again as she turns away to lead Corey to the car. “Don’t work too hard,” she calls over her shoulder before pulling the door closed behind her. I don’t even pretend I’ll follow that advice. The only time I’m not working hard is when I’m playing hard, and to be honest, I’ve been a little lax in that department lately. It’s not that I don’t have ample opportunity to play on a regular basis. The blonde in the lobby is a testament to that. But if I’m being frank, I’m sort of over the one-night stands. The hookups with women who see me as an ATM with a dick. That doesn’t mean I’m looking to settle down anytime soon. No way in hell is that in the cards for me. I’m just taking a bit of a break right now. I hear the door chime in the lobby, and I glance out the window to see Carl still busy with the blonde. Dammit. Pete’s on lunch break and Shelly’s out sick today, which leaves yours truly to deal with whoever just walked through the door. I take a moment to clean my glasses on the hem of my black T-shirt before I push the door open and step into the retail shop. I stop cold at the sight of her.
After being eye-fucked by two women in ten minutes, my brain takes a moment to register that this girl is doing pretty much the opposite. Bristling with tension, she’s got her dark hair piled in a messy knot on top of her head and anchored by a chewed-up pencil. She’s wearing a dark scowl and a baggy orange sweatshirt that says “OSU Crop & Soil Science” over the spot where I can only assume her left breast might be. Gray yoga pants hug her thighs nicely, though the effect is negated by the brown smear across one thigh. Dirt or chocolate, maybe, though it’s anyone’s guess. She’s frowning down at her laptop like it just ate her report and regurgitated it on the carpet. Then she looks up and hits me with the full force of green eyes the color of a Heineken bottle. She blinks once, then softens her expression. “I need help.” There’s no preamble, no double entendre, no hint of anything dirty in her request. Which is kind of a shame. No, it’s not. I move forward and step behind the counter to face her. “What seems to be the problem?” “My laptop. It’s frozen.” She flips it open, averting her eyes from mine. “I—uh—I spilled a drink on it last night, and it made sort of a zappy noise. I tried to clean it off, but now it’s just stuck like this, and I don’t know what to do.” Her words are rushed and a little frantic. I’m so busy looking at her—the flush in her cheeks, the fullness of her lips—that I almost fail to notice she’s holding the sleeve of her sweatshirt over the laptop screen. I glance at the keyboard, which has a bit of sticky residue on it, but it looks mostly clean. I reach out and start to pull the laptop toward me. “I can take a look at—” “No!” She grabs the edges of the computer and pulls it back. Her sleeve is still covering the monitor, and this is the weirdest tug-of-war game I’ve ever been part of. I raise one eyebrow at her. “It’s going to be difficult to assess the problem if I can’t see the computer.” “Right.” She bites the edge of her lip, and something stirs in the center of my chest. “Um, is there any way you can do that without looking closely at whatever might be on the screen?” Ah. Got it. Not the first time I’ve been confronted with someone’s secret pornography fetish when repairing a computer on the fritz. It happens at least a couple times a week, and this woman is hardly the first porn enthusiast of the female persuasion. I put on my best reassuring-nice-guy smile. “Ma’am, I can promise we’re very discreet here. But I do need to take a look at the whole device before I can do anything to fix the issue.” She seems to hesitate, and the way she’s still biting her lip makes me wonder what she looks like when she’s coming. Why the hell did I just imagine that? The woman’s dressed like a college student during finals week, and the vibe she’s giving off is more stay-the-hell-away than come-hither. Meanwhile, the blonde is bent over the other end of the counter looking like sex on a waffle cone, and my libido hasn’t twitched once. Maybe this laptop isn’t the only thing on the fritz. Sweatshirt Girl seems to decide something then, because she lets go of the laptop and draws her arm
back from the screen. “Okay,” she says, brushing a loose strand of hair from those eyes. Those eyes. She takes a step back and gives me a sheepish look. “I just—can you try to make it quick?” “Of course.” I have a better look at the keyboard now, and I can see it’s going to be a pain in the ass to deal with. Something sticky has seeped between the keys, and several are stuck in a down position. I can hear the motherboard wheezing like a sick cat, which is actually a good thing. At least it’s still got some spark. Sweatshirt Girl is right, though—the damn thing is totally frozen. My eyes flick to the screen, and I swear I only mean to check the pixels. But something catches my eye, and I stand there absorbing the words like some sort of creepy voyeur. Sex. Spanking. Roleplay. What the hell is this? And why am I so intrigued?
Chapter Two CASSIE Alone in my apartment after my mortifying trip to the computer repair store, I take a moment to make a list. A mental one, mind you, since my laptop is toast and its list-making days are over for now. In my mind, the list looks something like this: Things that seem like a good idea after three glasses of chardonnay, but most definitely are not: 1. Painting my fingernails neon purple 2. Eating an entire bag of Cheetos for dinner 3. Making a list of sexy fibs I’ve told my sisters It’s the last one that has me blushing like a nun in a porn shop four hours after that ill-fated trip to Hot Swap, which is stupid. I’m hardly a virgin. I have a nightstand drawer full of battery-powered pals, and I’m no stranger to vanilla bondage or creative uses for whipped cream. Hell, if you ask my two sisters— Missy and Lisa—they’ll tell you I’m the most brazen sex vixen they know. And that’s just it. I may have led them to believe that over the years because it was more fun than the alternative. Namely, that my single-minded focus on my career as a dirt-loving soil researcher with a PhD in crop and soil science would prompt my fretful sisters to fix me up with a steady stream of suit-clad attorneys with names like Blaine and Rochester. Before I knew it, I would find myself wearing a cashmere sweater set and debating whether to spend the morning doing Pilates in designer workout gear or arranging pinecones for a festive Christmas centerpiece. Basically, I would become my sisters. Don’t get me wrong. I don’t begrudge Lisa’s expansive wine collection or Missy’s cupboard full of carefully pressed napkins for every holiday including Groundhog Day (don’t ask). It’s just that they’re a universe apart from the filthy work boots and dirt-crusted fingernails I’ve earned in a rather grubby, maledominated profession. After years of feeling like a tree trunk next to my delicate-flower sisters, I decided to take charge of my image. It started as a joke. Missy invited me to a six-course wine dinner at her yacht club, and I told her I’d be too busy attending a group sex party. I thought she’d laugh, or at best, tell me I was disgusting and
not ask questions. But she honest-to-dog believed me. Even worse (or better, depending on your perspective), she seemed…intrigued. Titillated. Maybe a little impressed. It was the first time in my life I’d done anything to impress either of my sisters, so I kept the stories coming. Not only did it earn me some satisfying gasps of astonishment, it got me out of countless candle parties and in-home cooking demos featuring six ways to prepare coq au vin. So, I kept it up. And it was all humming along just fine until Lisa got engaged and asked me to help plan the bachelorette party. “All my college friends are dying to sit next to you,” Lisa gushed over celebratory drinks that night. I did my best to look humble while I sipped a light, earthy pinot noir and tried to imagine what I’d done to earn such interest. “Really?” “Mine, too,” piped our older sister, Missy. “They can’t wait to meet you and hear what you come up with for the bachelorette party.” “That’s—wow.” I sipped my wine again, not sure whether to feel flattered or nervous. What kind of party were they expecting me to put together, exactly? “For years, they’ve been hearing about our naughty little sister and all her sexy exploits,” Lisa continued as my stomach hit the floor and I realized the conversation had taken an unwelcome turn. “You’re practically famous.” Missy giggled and lowered her voice. “I think they’re hoping you’ll teach them a few things.” Right. And that’s how I came up with the brilliant idea to write up “The List.” A collection of ten sexy experiences I’ve invented over the years. Some of the biggest whoppers I’ve told. Never mind that the kinkiest thing I’ve done lately was analyze root systems for an aspen grove in Central Washington. If I’m going to impress my sisters and their friends with my exploits, I’d damn well better get my stories straight. If there’s one thing I know I’m good at, it’s preparing for an exam. All I needed were some CliffsNotes to help me study for the performance of a lifetime. It totally would have worked. At least it would have if I hadn’t knocked the damn wineglass onto my laptop. Now my wine-fueled list is an X-rated screensaver frozen on my laptop, courtesy of my clumsiness and a glass of Domaine Serene’s finest. Which brings me back to my apartment at eight o’clock on a Friday night, where I’m wondering what the odds are that someone in that computer shop has posted my list online and caused it to go viral. What does it even take for something to go viral? Oh God. What would the hashtag be? A knock at the door jolts me from my panicked visions of discovering my business cards have been altered to say “dirty girl” where the words “soil scientist” normally appear. The knock sounds again, and I glance down to realize I’m standing barefoot in my living room wearing yoga pants and my oldest, comfiest sweatshirt. The pants have a deeply-embedded soil smudge, earned
months ago during field work, but at least I showered this morning. That should count for something. I pad to the front door and peer through the peephole. My heart slams against my rib cage and bounces back to splat into a motionless heap inside my chest cavity. It’s him. The stupid-hot computer repair guy who likely thinks I’m a sex fiend. For one panicky second, I consider the possibility that he’s some sort of pervert stalker. A cute pervert stalker, but a pervert stalker nonetheless. That’s when the pervert stalker speaks. “Cassondra Michaels? It’s Simon Traxel from Hot Swap Computer Repairs. I’ve got your laptop here with me, and it’s as good as new.” That gets my attention. He fixed my computer? Really? Still, a girl can’t be too careful. I’m thinking of how to ask whether he has a prison record when he seems to read my mind. “I understand if you’re nervous about opening the door to a stranger, but I couldn’t read your phone number on the intake form.” “How did you read my address, then?” I call through the door. “You’re two blocks from Hot Swap on the same street,” he points out. “And this street number is pretty tough to mess up, even for someone with a doctor’s handwriting.” “I am a doctor,” I mutter, mostly to myself. A PhD in soil science, but still. “Ma’am?” On the other side of the door, he clears his throat. “Look, I can just leave it here next to your door. You seemed so upset earlier that I assumed you needed it quickly, but I can set it down right—” His words halt when I throw open the door and take him in. Good God, he’s hotter than I remember. The man looks like someone chiseled him out of oak. Rounded biceps, broad shoulders, abs with every last ridge and bump visible through the cotton of his T-shirt. The tortoiseshell glasses he wears frame brown eyes the exact color of undrained alluvial silt. That sounded sexier in my mind. I stand there gaping at him like an idiot for a few seconds before remembering my manners. “Simon,” I repeat, pretty sure that’s what he just told me his name was. “Wow. Thank you. You really fixed my laptop?” “Yep.” He grins at me, and those eyes light up like something you’d order out of an eyeball catalog. God, I’m losing it. I’m not sure if I’m supposed to tip the guy or blow him. The fact that I’m even having these thoughts makes me wonder if I pickled my brain with last night’s chardonnay binge. “Thank you,” I manage, wiping one sweaty palm down the leg of my pants. “What do I owe you?” The words come out sounding more suggestive than I meant them to, or maybe that’s only in my head. Hottie Geek’s expression doesn’t change, so I probably imagined it. “I’m feeling benevolent today,” he says. “No charge. I did install a larger hard drive, though. You were almost out of space. If you’d like, I can show you a couple quick tricks for maximizing your storage capacity. Or you can return to the shop and have one of my associates show you how to—” “No, I want you.” Shit. I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. Or maybe I did.
I lick my lips and try again. “Look, given what was frozen on my laptop screen, I’d really rather minimize the number of people who—uh—are privy to this.” “What was frozen on your laptop.” It’s a statement, not a question. He just repeated my words in a bemused tone, and I can’t tell what the hell that means. Did he read it or not? I study his face, trying to figure it out, but my brain gets sidetracked. Lord, it should not be legal for a man to have cheekbones like that. I step aside and usher him into my living room, hoping to salvage some dignity and the possibility that I’m a polite, professional member of society. “Look, Mr.—” “Simon,” he says, dropping onto my sofa and setting the laptop down on my coffee table. He doesn’t look at me while he boots it up. “Just Simon. Not Mister.” “Right. I’m Cassie.” I stand there like a dumbass, wondering if I should offer him a drink or something. He looks up then and flashes me that megawatt smile. “Cassie.” He pats the sofa next to him. “Come on. I’ll show you a couple things and then get out of your hair.” The fact that he hasn’t said a word about The List makes me think maybe I’m off the hook. Either he really didn’t read it, or he’s just being a gentleman. Either way, it emboldens me enough that I sit down next to him. My leg brushes his, and I swear to God I feel sparks arc straight from my knee to my nipples. I start to scoot away, but he pins me there with his words. “Okay, really quickly,” he says. “I’ve created a link to your new backup system right here. I updated your antivirus protection and did a thorough cleaning of the keyboard. You’ll want to watch out for this X key, though. It’s still a little sticky.” I nod. “I’ll try not to type too many words with an X in them.” The second I say that, I think of half a dozen. Excite. X-rated. Fixate. Sex. Climax. He looks up at me then, and I could swear the same words just flitted through his mind. There’s a knowing expression in those brown eyes, and I’m positive he read the list. He had to, right? Or maybe I imagined the look, because he’s back to pointing out some feature he updated on the laptop. Something about RAM or ROM or whatever. I can’t hear anything he’s saying over the voice in my head chanting, “Did he read it? Did he not read it?” He turns and asks if what he just showed me makes sense, and I nod like a dummy. For all I know he just gave me a recipe for snickerdoodles or told me where Jimmy Hoffa is buried. I have no clue. He holds my gaze, and I try to blink away the panic. I can’t take it anymore. I have to defuse the tension or I’ll explode.
I finally blurt it out. “Look, Simon—I’m feeling a little flustered because I know you saw The List on my monitor when I dropped off the computer, and it’s really nice of you to pretend you didn’t see it, but obviously, you did, and I feel like I should explain that it’s probably not what you think it is.” I drag in a deep breath to wash down that big mouthful of crazy. He looks up from the laptop then, a bemused expression in those light brown eyes. “What do I think it is?” He quirks an eyebrow at me, and I wonder if I’m sharing way too much. He sounds genuinely intrigued, and I feel my cheeks heating up. Did I just make an ass of myself? Certainly not the first time. I take a deep breath, determined to just get this out so I can stop feeling so damn awkward. “You probably think it’s some sort of Fucket list.” “Fucket list?” “Right. Like a sexual bucket list. Things I plan to do before I’m thirty or something like that. But that isn’t what this is.” There’s a spark of curiosity in his expression. His fingers, long and strong and perfectly shaped, tap the keyboard. I order myself to stop staring. “If it’s not a Fucket List,” he says, “What is it?” I take a deep breath and squinch my eyes closed, knowing the words that are about to come out of my mouth will make me sound like I’m hiding eighteen cats in my bedroom. “Over the years, I may have told my sisters a story or two about the wild and crazy sex things I’ve done.” “So, these are things you’ve already done?” There’s no judgment in his voice, but there’s a note of confusion. My eyes pop open, and I find myself shaking my head. “No, that’s not what I meant. I meant I made all this stuff up.” “All of it?” “I know it sounds stupid, but I wanted them to think I’m this crazy, uninhibited wild girl. Which I’m not.” I watch his face, looking for signs he might think he needs a restraining order. I see no hint he’s worried for my sanity. Just a slow, sexy smile that makes my stomach feel like a phreatic eruption in the magma chamber of a shield volcano. Still, he says nothing, and I feel myself rushing to fill the silence. “Anyway, I just didn’t want you to think I’m the sort of woman who goes around making lists of sexual exploits. Even fake ones.” “Exploits,” he repeats, then grins at me. “There’s a word you’ll have trouble typing without an X.” I laugh in spite of myself. I was right, dammit. The tension’s gone now, or at least the awkward kind is. Nothing like pointing out the elephant in the room to help everyone relax. Another word I won’t be able to type without an X. “Right,” I say, clearing my throat. “So anyway, I just didn’t want you to get the wrong idea about me.” “I see.” He folds my laptop cover closed, still regarding me with humor in his eyes. “But you don’t
really want to do all those things on The List.” That grin disarms me, and I appreciate that he’s not even pretending he didn’t read the list. Who wouldn’t? If someone handed me a computer with the words “Super awesome wild-ass (holy shit they’re gonna kill me) sex stuff to figure out before D-day” emblazoned in twenty-point font across the top of the page, damn straight I’d read it. I’m only human. And so is Simon whatshisname, if the heat radiating from his body is any indication. His shoulder is touching mine, and I’m aware of just how hard he is everywhere—how amazing he smells. Like Jory soil and clover in the sunshine, which I swear is much more awesome than it sounds. I remember he’s asked a question, though I’ve forgotten what it was. Oh, right. Whether I really want to do all the things on The List. “Right,” I say at last. “I guess I can’t pretend someone else came up with all the ideas?” “You could, I suppose.” He grins. “I might not believe you, though.” “True.” I clear my throat. “So maybe it’s just the product of an active imagination.” “You have an excellent imagination.” “Thank you.” Note to self: get out more. I literally can’t tell if this hot guy is flirting with me or if it’s all in my head. Just like before, the uncertainty has me ready to spew awkward word vomit. Things like my phone number or bra size or favorite sex position, which would definitely cue the need for a restraining order. I manage to keep my mouth shut this time and wait for him to say something else, but he just smiles at me. It feels hot in here, and I contemplate taking off my sweatshirt. Would he take it as an invitation? Would I want him to? I shift on the sofa, bumping his knee with mine. His hand shoots out as though to steady me, which is totally unnecessary, but it feels good on my thigh anyway. A hot guy is sitting on my couch, possibly flirting with me, and doesn’t seem freaked out by a crazy woman in sweatpants making a list of fake sex stories. Even weirder, he seems like he’s still waiting for an answer. Like he really wants to know if I like the idea of doing those things on the list. “Maybe.” I swallow. “Maybe some of them.” I can’t believe I’ve just said this out loud. It is hands down the boldest thing I’ve said in my entire life. I might throw up. I might throw up in front of a man so stupid-sexy he makes Ryan Gosling look like the Elephant Man. This is not happening. “In that case,” he says slowly, “I’d like to volunteer.” “Volunteer?” My question comes out like a croak, which I’m sure he finds about as sexy as pocket lint. “I’d like to help you out,” he says. “With item number four, to be precise.” Item number four? I fumble back through my wine-tinged memories to recall which act I’d put in that spot on my list. It hits me with the force of a dick-slap on the cheek. “Sex with an anonymous stranger!” I blurt.
“Well, I believe the way you wrote it was, ‘Crazyhawt sex with a dark-haired, anonymous stranger with great abs.’” He grins again, and it takes everything I have to keep from nodding stupidly. Before I can say anything, he lifts the edge of his T-shirt to show a perfect washboard stomach. Holy shit, the man is ripped. I’d pegged him as more of a computer geek than a gym rat, but apparently the two can coexist. I open my mouth to say something, but close it fast so I don’t drool. “So maybe I’d suffice.” He drops the hem of his shirt, and I feel my cheeks getting warm. Warmer. Christ, it’s at least two hundred degrees in here, and I’m pretty sure Hottie McGeekerson has something to do with that. I feel myself melting into the sofa, but I don’t want him to know this. I take my best stab at bravado, straightening my spine and adopting what I hope is a look of perfect nonchalance. “What makes you think I’m even attracted to you?” He laughs like this is the funniest thing he’s heard all week, which it just might be. I expect him to say something cocky and dickheadish that will totally kill the fantasy going on in my head right now. Instead, he does the opposite. He leans in and kisses me.
Chapter Three SIMON If I thought there was a chance Cassie would punch me in the crotch for being a presumptuous asshole, my fear dissolves the second my lips touch hers. So does she. Dissolve, I mean. It’s like the girl liquefies in my arms, wrapping herself around me and practically falling onto my lap. It’s a shock after her earlier shyness. But instead of making me feel bold and in control, having Cassie straddling me leaves me undone. I’m breathing like I’ve just done eight dozen pushups, and my heart feels like it’s having a seizure in my chest. I’m not used to being so affected by a woman—any woman—so the whole thing has me reeling. I break the kiss and come up for air, mostly just to get my bearings. “Is this okay?” Hey, I’m all about consent. “Um,” she says, and lunges for me again. I’ll take that as a “yes.” She’s kissing me with surprising hunger, grinding our bodies together where the thin cotton of her yoga pants meets the hard seam of my jeans. My dick responds like she’s called it by name and offered a Scooby Snack, and I realize I want her more than I’ve wanted anyone in ages. God, what is it about this woman? My hands slide under the hem of her sweatshirt, which is soft from wear. Not as soft as she is, though. I realize this while my palms devour her bare skin, and I’m touching her like a horny teenager sliding into second for the first time. I order myself to go slow, but the way she writhes when I unhook her bra makes me think she has other ideas. “That feels good.” She breaks the kiss to lean back and smile. She seems to hesitate for a second, and I get the sense she wasn’t kidding earlier. This really isn’t her normal MO. But the hesitation evaporates in an instant as she reaches down to yank the sweatshirt off over her head. The bra goes with it, and suddenly I’m eye level with the most perfect tits I’ve ever seen. “I can’t believe you’ve been hiding these under that massive sweatshirt,” I murmur, moving my hands up to cup them. Cassie sighs and arches her back as I suck one nipple into my mouth. She groans aloud, and I try to remember if I’d pegged her as the noisy type when I thought about this back in my shop. And let’s be honest—I did think about this. I thought about it even more after I read that damn list. Does
it make me a pig that I came here tonight hoping maybe, just maybe, there was a chance things might end up like this? But never like this. This is hella more intense than I imagined. I’m drunk with desire, still kissing her like my life depends on it. I slide my palms around her back and draw her closer, gliding my mouth to her other nipple. She sucks in a breath, and I feel her grind harder against me. My dick is screaming to get out of my pants, but I rein myself in and focus on her breasts. This woman is delicious. My tongue makes slow circles around her areola while I tease the other nipple with the pad of my thumb. By the time I’ve played with her for a good five minutes, she’s panting like she just chased the ice cream truck for ten blocks. “Please,” she moans. She doesn’t articulate what she wants, but I have a pretty good idea. Should I make her spell it out? Urge her to talk dirty, just to prove she can do it? Who knew shy girls could be such a turn-on? “Please what?” I murmur against the underside of her breast. “Please—” The word is more urgent this time, and I can tell she’s about to burst. Still, I want to hear her say it. “What do you want, Cassie?” She gives a small groan, and I can’t tell if it’s frustration or pleasure. Maybe both. I flick my tongue over her nipple again. “Tell me, Cassie. Tell me what you’d like me to do to you. I want to hear you say it.” She sits back and takes a deep breath. Those green eyes flash with fire as she stares at me with such intensity, I feel my chest contract. “Please fuck me.” Her cheeks go pink, and I can tell she’s surprised by her own boldness. The words send a lightning bolt straight to my libido, but I know it’s too soon. I want to take my time. I scoop my hands under her ass and stand up, and she wiggles against me. She probably thinks I’m going to give her what she asked for, but I turn around and set her on the couch facing me. Before she can protest, I’m grabbing the waist of her yoga pants and dragging them down her legs. “Wait,” she says, and for a second I think she’s going to call a halt to this whole thing. My cock screams in protest, but the rest of me is willing to be a gentleman. But Cassie gives me a shy smile and bites her lip. Again with the hesitation. “What is it?” I urge, commanding myself not to touch her. If she’s saying stop, I can respect that. But a slow smile spreads over her face, and she looks like a kid who just raided the cookie jar as she grabs the edge of my T-shirt. “I don’t want to be the only one naked.” I laugh and take a step back. Grabbing the hem of my shirt, I lift it up slowly. I’m not an idiot. I know how to work it for full effect, baring abs and pecs and biceps I’ve worked damn hard to hone. I’m ADHD, so I can either burn extra energy at the gym or playing video games.
I watch her face as I toss the T-shirt aside, and I know I’ve chosen wisely. She looks hungry, but not desperate. There’s something unbelievably fucking sexy about that. She reaches for my belt buckle, but I shake my head and push her hand away. “Not yet,” I tell her. “First, I want to make sure you’re ready.” “I’m ready,” she pants, but her voice hitches a little on the last syllable. She’s sitting naked on her sofa with her thighs pressed tight together and those beautiful tits on full display. She’s like a gift store filled with things I want to touch, and I’m almost not sure where to start. I drop to my knees in front of her, and she gasps in surprise. Shouldering her thighs apart, I slide my hands under her and cup her ass with both palms. I tilt her toward me, angling her up to give me the perfect view of her sweet pussy. “God, you’re wet,” I murmur, surprised to hear the awe in my own voice. “But I want to make you wetter.” Before she can say anything else, my mouth is on her. I tease her at first, sliding my tongue over her outer folds, tracing the edges of her sex. She squirms and bucks and claws at my hair, fueling the fire in my chest. By the time I touch her clit with the tip of my tongue, she practically levitates off the couch. I grip her ass to hold her steady as I devour her with my mouth. My tongue moves in and out of her, circling back up to her clit before dipping back down to taste her again. She’s sweet, so unbelievably sweet, and I’m certain I could do this all night. I’m almost disappointed when I feel her tense beneath me. “Oh, God,” she whispers, almost like she’s in awe. Her back arches, and she presses herself against my mouth. I grip her ass harder, fucking her with my tongue until she screams and gasps and rakes her fingernails over my scalp. I think I just lost a chunk of hair, but I don’t care. When I feel her go slack in my hands, I sit back on my heels and grin at her. “You seem a little less tense now.” She laughs and takes a shuddering breath. “I guess you know the secret to relaxation.” She starts to slide her legs together, but I’m not ready yet to lose this beautiful view. And I’m nowhere near ready to be done. I slide my palms out from under her and stand up. I hold out a hand and she takes it without question, allowing me to hoist her up off the couch. “Where are we going?” she asks. “I was hoping you’d kindly point me toward a bedroom.” That sounds dorkier than it did in my mind, but she smiles like she finds it charming and pulls me down a hall. “This way.” She pulls ahead and drags me toward the last doorway on the left. I get the sense she’s as eager as I am, though a little less sure of herself. She turns in the doorway and gives me a sheepish look. “Sorry. I forgot to make my bed this morning. I was a little distracted.” “Not a problem,” I tell her, nudging her backward into the room. “We’re just going to mess it up again
anyway.” I put my hands on her hips again and scoop her up. She’s curvy and lush, and I expect her to protest the way some girls do about her weight or my back or some combination of the two. But Cassie just laughs. “Thanks for the ride.” I toss her onto the bed, eager to give her a different kind of ride. She lands softly on her back and her legs splay open. She draws her knees together as her hair falls out of its topknot and across her face. God, she’s beautiful. It didn’t fully register until just now. I’d been so wrapped up admiring the different parts of her—eyes, legs, tits—that I hadn’t stopped to notice how breathtaking the whole package is. I must be staring too long, because she pats the bed beside her. “Are you coming?” “Definitely.” It dawns on me that I’m still wearing my jeans, and I reach into the back pocket to pull out my wallet. Taking out a condom, I toss it onto the nightstand. Then I reach for my belt buckle. Cassie licks her lips, eyes glued to my crotch. One knee falls to the side, giving me the perfect view of that sweet pussy. She’s lying back on her elbows, looking like the best damn party invitation I’ve ever seen. I shove my pants down my hips and kick them aside. I start to reach for the condom, but she beats me to it. “Let me,” she says, flipping onto her belly and showing me an ass that’s every bit as delicious as the rest of her. But instead of rolling the condom on like I expect her to, she sets it on the pillow and grabs my ass. She pulls me closer and I almost stumble as she moves me to the edge of the bed. Her tongue flicks out and grazes the underside of my cock, and I give a gasp of unexpected pleasure. “Christ,” I hiss as she opens her mouth wide and sucks me in. Her tongue is warm and makes the sweetest cushion for the head of my cock. She pulls me in deep, and I look down, expecting to see her eyes watering. Instead, she draws back and grins up at me. “I was hoping you’d be like this.” “Like what?” She licks her lips, and I see her start to hesitate again. It’s clear she’s not used to talking dirty, to describing in explicit detail what she wants from a lover. But it’s also clear Cassie is a fast learner. Her eyes flash as she looks up at me. “I hoped you’d have a huge—” She grins, trusting her expression will fill in the blank. But I want to hear her say the word. It’s not for my ego. It’s for the thrill of watching her bust out of her quiet, studious-girl mold. “A huge what, Cassie?” Her cheeks pinken, and for a moment, I think she won’t say it. Then her gaze drops to the object that’s right in front of her. She runs the tip of her tongue over her bottom lip, then meets my eyes again. “I was hoping you’d have a huge cock.” Good God. I don’t know if it’s the words themselves that turn me on or the fact that it’s her saying them.
I don’t have a chance to respond, because she’s sucking me in again, taking me all the way back into her throat. One hand slips between my legs to tickle my balls with fingertips blessedly devoid of sharp girlclaws. I close my eyes and enjoy the ride, moaning when she sucks harder, then releases me, then does it again. When a prickly sensation creeps across the back of my neck, I open my eyes. If I’m not careful, she’s going to bring this to a hastier conclusion than either of us wants. Either she senses it, or she’s ready to move on to the next act, because she draws back half a second before I tell her to stop. “Just wanted to make sure you’re ready,” she says, teasing me with my own words. She reaches for the condom and tears it open. I expect her to put it on with the same bravado she just used to suck my cock, but she seems unsure for a second. I reach for her hands and help pinch the tip while she rolls it on. “Teamwork,” I say, which makes her giggle. But she stops laughing when I reach for her again. Grabbing her waist, I roll her onto her back. I ease myself onto the sheets beside her, cupping her breast like I’ve done it a million times before. “How do you want it?” I ask. “This is your fantasy. How did you picture it?” She looks a little sheepish as she moves her hand down the side of my body. “Lots of ways, actually.” “What was your favorite?” I put my mouth close to her ear, wanting to feel her squirm as I talk dirty. “Did you picture someone pinning you on your back and fucking you hard while you wrapped your legs around his back? Or maybe you wanted to climb on top and ride his cock until you came?” It feels weird talking this way, like I’m speaking about myself in third person. But Cassie’s too worked up to notice. She’s squirming and writhing beside me like she’s aching to have me buried inside her. That makes two of us. “Actually,” she says, her breath grazing my shoulder, “I pictured it from behind.” “Yeah?” “Yes. But that’s not what I want anymore. I changed my mind.” “A woman’s prerogative.” I brush her hair back from her face, dying to ask what prompted the switch. But I’m also dying to be inside her, and the quickest way to get there involves less talking. “So how do you want it?” “I want you on top of me,” she says. “I want to see those big arms on either side of my shoulders and feel your chest pressing into me while you pin me down and fuck me hard.” Her words send a jolt of fire through me, and I realize this is what I want, too. I can’t believe she’s turning out to be like this in the sack. She was adorable in the shop, then shy on her couch. But the way she’s talking now shows me a whole different version of Cassie. I like this version a lot. I push her back onto the bed and ease myself down on top of her. Her legs fall open wider, and I slip between them. I hover like that for a moment, nudging her wetness with the head of my cock. She arches up to meet me, and we stay frozen like that for a few heartbeats. I move my cock a fraction of an inch,
almost inside her now. Her head lolls back and I see her eyes begin to close, but I touch the side of her face. “Look at me,” I murmur. Her eyes flutter open, and I get lost in them for just a second. What was I going to say? Oh, yeah. “I want to watch your face as I slide inside you. I’m going to do it nice and slow, and I want you to keep your eyes open the whole time.” She nods, but doesn’t ask questions. It seems she’s game for anything. Judging from her list, maybe that’s true. I ease myself back down, nestling the head of my cock into her slick folds. How does that saying go? Just the tip. That’s it, and she seems to love it. Her hands clutch at my back, trying to draw me deeper, but I’m determined to take my time. I pull back just a little, hesitating there long enough to watch her forehead crease with urgency. “Please,” she murmurs, and it’s the sweetest sound I’ve ever heard. I slide deeper this time, slipping the head of my cock all the way inside her. She arches up to meet me, legs twining around the backs of my thighs. Again, she tries to pull me deeper. This time I let her. Two inches this time, give or take. “Keep your eyes open,” I urge, holding myself steady. “I want to watch as I slide all the way inside you.” “Okay,” she whispers, and I get the sense she’d agree to damn near anything at this point. I draw back, taking my time, hesitating right there with the head of my cock at her opening. “Do it!” she gasps. This time, I comply. I drive in deep, burying myself to the hilt. She cries out, and for a second I think I’ve hurt her. But her ankles are locked tight behind my thighs and she’s thrusting her pelvis up to take me in. Her eyes are wide and liquid, and I lean down to kiss the column of her throat so she arches up. She smells sweet—like honey and cloves—and her dark hair curls around the edges of her ears. I start to move with a steadier rhythm then, thrusting slowly at first, giving her time to adjust. She doesn’t lie passively beneath me. She fucks back, reaching up to grab the slats of the headboard for leverage. It looks like it’s made out of some sort of recycled barn wood, and I focus on that to keep from blowing my load too soon. This girl is driving me mad, and I’m starting to feel lightheaded. The next words out of her mouth nearly send me over the brink. “I’m close,” she gasps. Her hips start to rise, and I drive into her harder. I can’t believe she’s coming this quickly. I can’t believe I am. None of this is what I expected. I feel her break beneath me and her eyes go wide again. “Oh, Jesus, yes!” she screams, letting go of the headboard to rake her nails down my back. That’s enough to tip me over the edge, and when the first wave hits me, something grabs hold of me and
pulls me under. Stars burst behind my eyelids, and I drive into her again and again. Her sex is gripping me tight, milking me dry, as I groan and thrust and come my brains out inside her. When we’ve both caught our breath, I roll to the side and pull her against my chest. Her heart is beating fast, but her eyes are closed. I wonder what she’s thinking. Then her eyelids flutter open. “Well,” she says and grins up at me. “Looks like we managed to tick one thing off the Fucket List and one thing off the extra-credit list.” “There’s an extra-credit list?” “I just made that up in my mind.” She grins, and I get the sense Cassie and I were a lot alike in high school. That we were both the geeky, hyper-focused student intent on getting one straight A after another. I never imagined those qualities would translate to sexual compatibility, but whatever. “What’s on the Sextra Credit list?” I ask, making her giggle again. “G-spot orgasm.” She blushes a little when she says it, and I feel an unexpected swell of pride. “No kidding?” I grin and brush a sweaty strand of hair off her forehead. “I wasn’t even trying for that one.” “Me neither. You must’ve had the angle just right.” Something about her words embolden me. Or maybe it’s Cassie herself. Or maybe I’ve just gone crazy. That’s the only excuse for the next words out of my mouth. “Let me help you,” I tell her. “I want to do the rest of The List.”
Chapter Four CASSIE Super awesome wild-ass (holy shit they’re gonna kill me) sex stuff to figure out before D-day… By Cassondra R. Michaels 1. Sex position called the Post Hole Digger (sounds like something to only do once) 2. Hair pulling while bent over kitchen counter and spanking with a spatula or pancake turner or ??? 3. Pokey wheelie thing 4. Crazyhawt sex with a dark-haired, anonymous stranger with great abs 5. Outdoor sex in the snow (WTF?!? Frostbite, not sexy!) 6. Sex in public. In a car, in a bar, on a boat…DEFINITELY not with a goat (thank God!) 7. Pop Lisa’s workout ball while having sex on it 8. I kissed a girl, and apparently really liked it (Umm…I don’t even like @#$% Cherry ChapStick) 9. Roleplay (cop and jewel thief? Sexy tycoon and naive college student? Buy schoolgirl costume in case they ask) 10. Naughty spa day at super-snooty place for rich assholes. Mud bath, massage, and wild times in the ladies’ changing room. I’ll be honest. If I’d known I’d find myself sitting naked in bed with a stupid-hot naked guy determined to fulfill all my sexual fantasies, I might have put a little more thought into my list. Not that I’d necessarily add or delete anything. It’s just a little— “Pokey wheelie thing?” Simon looks at me, one eyebrow raised. He’s still naked, but he’s wearing his glasses again and has my green paisley quilt covering his junk. Pity, that. I scoot a little closer to him and peer at the screen of my laptop, pretty sure this is the first time it’s been on any lap besides mine. A naked lap at that. “After three glasses of wine, I forgot what it was called,” I tell him. “Doctors use them for neurological
testing to gauge nerve reactions. It’s like a tiny, sharp stainless steel pinwheel on the end of a stick that’s about—” “A Wartenberg wheel?” “Yes! That’s it.” I’m pretty sure a guy who looks like Simon knows about it because he has a whole room full of sex toys cataloged in alphabetical order. Then again, I may be reading him wrong. Yes, he’s confident, but he’s more cerebral than I pegged him at first. It’s not just the glasses, either. There’s the tiniest hint of awkwardness there, like he spent his teen years playing video games instead of making out in the backseat of a Mustang. The way he’s looking at me now makes me wish I’d put the Mustang thing on the list. Maybe it’s not too late to add it. “So, you dreamed up all these things over the years,” he says, “but you’re telling me you never did any of them?” “That is correct,” I reply, a little annoyed by my own awkward formality. “But deep down, you kinda want to do them? Want to try out being the wild girl you pretended to be for your sisters?” It’s not until he’s said the words out loud that I realize he just hit the nail on the head. I nod and swallow hard, trying to get my bearings. “Yes,” I admit. “I guess that might be true.” “Then the offer still stands,” he says. “To help with the Fucket List.” His smile is warm and open as he shifts his gaze back to the computer screen. “Tell me about the ‘pokey wheelie thing,’” he says. “The Wartenberg wheel. Why did you choose that?” “I used one in biology classes in grad school,” I confess, pretty sure I’m offering up the lamest postcoital pillow talk he’s ever heard. “Then I had ulnar nerve surgery a few years ago, and the neurologist used one on my arm. I got goosebumps and kind of wondered what it would feel like on other parts.” “Other parts,” he repeats, looking up from the computer to give me that bemused smile I’m starting to really like. “What other parts, Cassie?” I order myself not to blush, willing my capillaries to stay calm and keep functioning like normal. I’ve had this guy buried inside me. I should be past the point of feeling embarrassed. “Clavicle, tits, sternum, hipbones,” I tell him. “In no particular order.” He laughs like I’ve said the funniest thing he’s ever heard. “I love that you mix slang with the clinical terminology.” “Science geeks can talk dirty, too.” “That they can.” Simon clears his throat and looks back at the screen. “The spanking and hair pulling —” “And the kitchen gadget. Don’t forget that part.” He grins. “I couldn’t possibly. So, are you wanting to be spanked or do the spanking?” “Are you game for either?” I see him hesitate just a little, and there’s something about seeing a chink in his in-control demeanor that
makes me smile. “I’m open to negotiation.” “Negotiation.” I smile. “Is this a business proposition, then? A la Fifty Shades of Grey? Please tell me you don’t have a contract in your briefcase.” “I don’t own a briefcase,” he says. “And there’s definitely no contract.” “Then why are you volunteering for this? Out of the kindness of your heart?” He hesitates again, and I wonder if I’ve pushed too much. Then again, we’re talking about having this man enter my body repeatedly. I’m allowed to push a little. “I like you,” he says at last. “And I like sex. A lot.” “Clearly. And you’re quite good at it.” “Thank you. I read a lot of sex manuals when I was a nerdy teenager.” “That’s either the saddest or the hottest thing I’ve ever heard,” I tell him. “Maybe both.” “Don’t worry. I’ve had time to hone my skills since then.” “I noticed.” He grins and shoves his glasses up his nose. I notice the smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes, though, and I wonder if there’s more to Simon’s story than he’s telling me. “Wouldn’t you rather be out honing your skills some more instead of volunteering your services to a sheltered young dirt doctor?” I ask. He shrugs and glances back at the screen. “I work a lot,” he says. “And I have certain obligations that keep me on a tight leash as far as relationships go.” My arms prickle at that. “You’re not married, are you?” “God, no!” He answers like I’ve just asked if he enjoys clubbing baby seals, and it occurs to me I might not be the only one in this bed with an aversion to the whole marriage and family shit-show. “Definitely not married,” he says. “And no intention of ever getting married. Ever,” he repeats, like I might have missed the emphasis. I give an unladylike snort. “You don’t have to worry about me trying to pin you down and wrestle a ring onto your finger,” I inform him. “I’m pretty committed to not being committed. And have a stupid list of sexual lies to prove it.” “Touché,” he says, glancing back at the list. “But I’m also willing to wager you’re a little bit…conservative.” He gives an idle wave at the screen, and the tip of his finger grazes the words I kissed a girl. I try the single-eyebrow lift he gave me, but I’m pretty sure it looks like I have a facial tic. “What part of girl-on-girl action makes you think I’m conservative?” I ask. “The fact that you haven’t already crossed these things off your list,” he says. “The fact that you made a list at all instead of just going out and sowing your wild oats.” He’s got me there. “For the record,” he says, “I’m sort of over one-night-stands. And as we’ve already established, I’m
not interested in the whole relationship train wreck.” Interesting. He calls it a train wreck, I call it a shit-show. It’s clear we’re on the same page as far as relationships go. And in other ways. I feel a smile starting to spread across my face, and he must read exactly what I’m thinking. “We’re compatible in bed,” he says. “So it seems likely we’ll be able to fulfill your list to our mutual satisfaction.” “You make it sound so sexy.” He laughs then leans down and plants a kiss on my shoulder. “I’ll also admit I like a good challenge. Some of the things on this list fall into that category.” “Which ones?” He flashes me a grin, but doesn’t say anything. I realize he’s been doing most of the talking. I probably owe him something. “I want to be spanked,” I say. At his mild look of alarm, I hurry to clarify. “Not right this second. I’m answering your question from earlier. About whether I want to do the spanking and hair pulling, or if I want those things done to me. It’s the latter.” “I was hoping that was the case,” he says. “I think we’re going to get along beautifully. So, what do you say?” I think about his proposal. I picture myself doing all those things on the Fucket List with him, with Simon, with this stunning example of masculinity sitting here naked in my bed. He smiles, and something in my chest unspools. “Okay,” I say. “Let’s do it.”
Chapter Five SIMON “Thank you, Simon.” My kid sister beams at me as she holds up the bright purple sweatshirt I’ve just given her, and part of me breaks inside. She’s so fucking happy over a goddamn sweatshirt. Happy about everything, when three-quarters of the people on this planet would weep at the thought of being in Junie’s shoes. “You’re welcome,” I tell her. “I know how much you love purple.” “I do. And I like the kangaroo pocket in the front.” She pulls the sweatshirt on over her head, and my brain flashes back to Cassie wearing a hoodie like this one. Everything’s making me think of her these days. Piles of dirt, for chrissakes. I’m seeing her later today, and I’m trying to pretend those aren’t goose bumps of anticipation on my arms right now. “It looks great on you,” I tell Junie as I help her straighten out the shoulders. “You can wear it when we go on our trip in a few weeks.” “We’re going to the beach.” I nod, even though it wasn’t a question. I know she’s looking for reassurance. For affirmation that’s she’s remembered this detail correctly. “That’s right,” I tell her. “The Oregon Coast.” “And we’re visiting the graveyard,” she says. “To see Mom and Dad.” “Right again.” Her expression is somber, and I want to punch every single person who ever suggested someone with Down syndrome isn’t capable of retaining information or processing emotion just like everyone else. Fuck those guys. “It’s going to be a fun trip,” I tell her. “Is Kaitlyn coming?” The question hits me like a kick to the solar plexus. I shake my head, buying myself time to find my voice. “No. Kaitlyn and I don’t see each other anymore.” Junie frowns. I can tell she’s trying to digest this. We’ve had this conversation before, and she hasn’t seen Kaitlyn for two years. Or Paula. Or Britney. Or any of the other girlfriends I introduced to her years ago. Back when I thought happily-ever-after might be a real option for me, and that women I formed relationships with weren’t just after my money. I was a dumbass.
“We’re going to have a lot of fun at the beach,” I tell Junie instead. “Just the two of us. No girlfriends.” The idea seems to please her, and she smiles. “We can hunt for agates,” she says. “And we’ll have clam chowder at Mo’s.” “Yummy!” She grins. “I have the date written down on my calendar.” She does, too. I saw it earlier, along with the dates she’s scheduled to work at Hot Swap’s Gresham location this coming week. I’m so fucking proud of my sister sometimes I feel like jumping up on the porch rail and crowing about it. “Okay, then,” I tell her. “I have to go now. You have a good week. And thanks for the lunch date.” “Thanks for the sweatshirt. I love you, Simon!” “I love you, too.” It’s the only time you’ll catch me saying those words, to anyone, ever. And when I hug my sister tightly, I feel the love with every fiber of my being. I can still see her smiling and stroking the arms of the sweatshirt as I slide into my car parked at the curb outside the group home where she lives. Sarah comes out and sits beside Junie, and they both wave at me as I pull away with a big knot in my chest. I wish things were different. I wish Junie didn’t have to struggle to do so many things other people take for granted. I wish our parents hadn’t died ten years ago. I wish I hadn’t learned the hard way that women only want to date the jet-setting millionaire and not the devoted brother who will always, always put his sister first. I shake off my own funk as I pull out into traffic and glance at the clock. It’s just after three, and I’m not due at Cassie’s place until four. I could kill an hour getting some work done or stopping at the gym, but instead I pull into the parking lot of the flower shop on the corner of Burnside and buy the biggest bunch of daisies they have. I know we’re not dating—not even close—but she deserves some damn flowers. Besides, I haven’t seen her since that first night. We’ve texted a lot, coordinating the details of our schedules and our plans for which item to tackle next. But I haven’t laid a hand on her for days, and I’m dizzy knowing I get to touch her again. I leave my car in the parking garage two blocks away, feeling a small pang of guilt. It’s true I’d prefer it if she didn’t know I’m a guy who can afford a new Mercedes CL65 coupe. A whole fleet of them, for that matter. Arming the women I date with that information has never gone well for me. You’re not dating, I remind myself. Just fucking. I like Cassie too much to see this end before it even really begins. There’s plenty of time to explain things later. I ring the bell at Cassie’s place right on the dot at four. She opens the door, and it takes me a second to recognize her. “You’re not wearing sweatpants,” I say lamely. She rolls her eyes at me and pushes the door open wider, gesturing for me to come in. “Very observant,
Einstein.” “You’re also not naked,” I point out, studying her from head to toe as I step into her apartment and hand her the flowers. “Thank you.” She takes the flowers and strides into her tiny kitchen in a pair of strappy black heels that don’t make her wobble at all. She’s wearing a black skirt that’s tight, but not too tight. Green top made out of some sort of slippery material. Not silk, but I’ll bet it’s soft like that. My mouth starts to water, and I realize I’m gaping at her. “What?” she says, whirling on her heel. I see a flicker of something in her expression—defensiveness? Self-consciousness?—and it occurs to me she’s a lot more nervous than she wants me to know. I’m not sure why, but it makes me like her more. “You look amazing,” I say. “I do sometimes dress up, you know.” She runs her palm down the skirt, still clutching the flowers in one hand. “When I’m not doing fieldwork, sometimes I have to present my findings at university lectures. I know how to look girly when the occasion calls for it.” I’m not sure where this bristliness is coming from, but I give her my best reassuring smile and lean against the kitchen counter. “I definitely don’t think you look girly.” “What?” “You’re no little girl. You’re all woman, Cassie. And incredibly hot.” Her cheeks pinken at that, and she looks down at the flowers she’s stuffing into a tall blue vase. “Well,” she says, smiling a little. “Thank you.” “No, thank you. For inviting me over. For being really fucking sexy. For wearing my favorite color.” Her smile gets a little bigger, and she looks down at her blouse. “Your favorite color is green?” “It is now.” She rolls her eyes, but she’s still smiling. “That’s such a line.” “Maybe, but it’s true. You look amazing. Of course, you turned me on when you were wearing sweatpants, so it must be you and not what you’re wearing.” She finishes fiddling with the flowers and shrugs. “I just wanted you to know I’m not always in Carhartt coveralls and work boots. Or hoodies and yoga pants. I do clean up pretty well.” I give her my best sexy grin. “And you know how to get dirty when the occasion calls for it.” It’s a ballsy move, going right for the reason we’re here instead of playing coy, but the gamble pays off. Her smile breaks into the real deal, sunny and open and warm. She laughs, and the tension between us is smashed into a million bits. I’ve wanted her from the second I walked through the door, but I want her more now. “Thank you for the flowers,” she says. “They’re beautiful.” “You’re welcome.” “You didn’t have to do that.”
“I’m aware there’s no legal obligation to purchase flowers for a woman I’m sleeping with,” I say, making her blush again. “I did it because I wanted to.” “Thanks.” She gives me a shaky smile. “Sorry, I’m just a little nervous.” “Not a problem.” “Want a glass of wine?” she asks. “Sure. That sounds nice.” “I hope pinot noir is okay. I opened a bottle last night, so it’s had time to breathe.” “That’s perfect.” We’re still acting a little stiff, which is not the sort of stiff I had in mind when I came here. Still, I understand the need for a little verbal foreplay. We’re not just going to jump each other the second I walk through the door. Cassie hands me my wine, and we sit together on the couch. This couch, I think, remembering the last time I was here. “So how was work?” I take a sip from the wineglass. “It was good. You know, you don’t have to pretend we’re dating. We can just get right down to it.” I choke on my wine a little, but recover quickly. “It might help with the nervousness if we have a little conversation first.” “Right. You’re right, of course. Sorry. This is still kinda new to me.” I smile to let her know I’m not upset, and I take another sip of wine. “So how long have you lived in Portland?” “All my life. Well, except for college. I went to Oregon State all the way through school—undergrad, grad school, my doctorate. How about you?” “Stanford,” I say, then regret it. She cocks her head and looks at me oddly. “And you work in a computer repair shop?” “Yeah.” Crap. The last thing I need is for her to figure out I don’t actually work there, but I own the whole damn chain. “I lived in LA for a little while, but I’ve been in Portland for eight years,” I tell her, diverting her from the subject of my career path. “I like it here. The weather’s nice and mild, and the skiing’s good in the wintertime.” “You ski?” “Yes. Do you?” She shakes her head. “No. I’ve wanted to try it, but I’ve never gotten around to it.” “I can teach you sometime.” That was a dumb thing to say. We’ve agreed this a temporary thing. Just a chance to satisfy some sexual urges for us both. The odds of us even knowing each other by the time the next ski season rolls around are the same as my odds of becoming an opera singer. Did I mention I’m tone deaf? I wait to see if Cassie will say anything about my verbal blunder, but she takes a sip of wine and toys
with her hair. She has it down instead of in a topknot this evening, and I think about how it will feel to wrap my fingers up in it and tug. “So…you swear you’re not married?” I sputter into my wineglass at the abruptness of the question. I shake my head and set down the glass. “Cross my heart and hope to die, I’m not married. Never have been.” “Good. That’s good.” “No girlfriend, either. Or fiancée. Or regular fuck buddy, in case you’re wondering.” I watch her brows lift in surprise, and I can tell she wants to ask more. I consider telling her right then and there about my abysmal track record with women. About how one girlfriend after another chose to cut and run when she realized life with me wasn’t all luxury spa getaways and shopping trips to Paris. It’s picnics in the park with Junie. It’s battling the system to make sure she has every opportunity she can get. It’s about letting my kid sister know I have her back, no matter what. But sharing that much detail with Cassie would open the door to questions I’m not ready to answer. Instead, I settle for a half-truth. “Serious relationships aren’t really my thing,” I tell her. “I’m just not cut out for it.” She nods and sips her wine, and I’m glad to see no trace of disappointment on her face. In fact, she looks relieved. “Good,” she says. “They’re not my thing, either.” “You’ve never been married?” “Nope. Not planning on it, either. I’m not really wired to be a good little wifey, planning dinner parties and playing tennis at the country club.” “And that’s a requirement of marriage?” “It is in my family.” “I see.” “My sisters are—” She stops herself there, and I wonder what she was about to say. Her expression is soft, almost wistful. When she speaks again, her voice is lower. “I love them dearly. Lisa taught me to ride a bike, and Missy once slapped a boy on the playground after he made fun of me for having dirty fingernails.” “But?” I’m not sure how I know there’s a “but,” but I can tell from her expression there is. “But,” she acknowledges, “we don’t have a lot in common. They like designer clothes and Pinterest boards of hydrangeas and expensive jewelry. And even though I’m glad they’ve both found the things that make them happy, they’re not the same things that make me happy.” I sense I’ve stumbled into touchy territory, and I feel relieved I’ve told her nothing about my career. If her family’s hell-bent on seeing Cassie married off to a guy whose finances give her the luxury of spending afternoons polishing her toenails on a yacht, it’s wise for me not to let on that I’m that guy. On paper, anyway. Certainly not in real life.
Full disclosure: I don’t own a yacht. I can see Cassie squirming beside me on the sofa, and I wonder if it’s best to just stop the chitchat and get on with what we’ve decided to do. What we both want most from each other. She senses my eyes on her and looks up. When those green eyes lock with mine, I feel a jolt of heat arc through me. From her sharp intake of breath, I can tell she feels it, too. Something primal. Something carnal. Something that has nothing at all to do with money or relationships or anything of the sort. “Okay, then.” I clear my throat. “We’re going for item number two this evening, correct?” “That’s correct.” Her cheeks turn a few hues rosier, and I’m not sure if it’s the ridiculousness of our formality, or the thought of what item number two is that’s making her blush. “Hair pulling,” I say, deciding to put it out there. “And spanking with a kitchen implement of some sort, if I’m not mistaken. Any particular reason?” I don’t know why I ask, since she doesn’t need a reason for wanting her ass smacked. It makes no difference to me, and I’m happy to oblige either way. I’m almost surprised when she answers. “Yeah.” She takes a small swallow of wine and seems to choose her words carefully. “I told that particular fib last year when my sisters were giving me a hard time about being a terrible cook. I am, by the way. It’s never really bothered me before, but that day—” She shrugs in a way that says a lot more than it would have if she’d completed the sentence. I nod, hoping she’ll continue. “Anyway,” she says, “Lisa made a crack about me not knowing where my own kitchen was, and I fired back that I knew exactly where it was because some hot guy bent me over the counter the week before and yanked my hair while he smacked my ass with a spatula.” I take a big gulp of wine and wonder if this story is supposed to be turning me on. It is. “And they bought your story?” “Yeah. I knew they would. Their book club read 50 Shades of Grey a couple years ago. I heard them all talking about the spanking parts, and they sounded scandalized.” She says the word with a tone of reverence, and I can see why she’d want that. Why she’d crave that sort of response from people who’ve looked down their noses at her. I watch as she takes a small sip of wine. “I love my sisters,” she says at last. “It’s complicated.” “Family usually is.” Her eyes meet mine, and for a moment we just look at each other. I feel like I’m swimming in those bold green pools, and I’ve almost forgotten what I came here to do. “The thing is, my sisters are really—uptight,” she says. “And really, really girly.” “Girly,” I repeat. “You keep using that word. What do you mean, exactly?” She shrugs and takes a sip of her wine. “They’re always in skirts and dresses and heels. Well, unless they’re going to their country club for the latest trendy workout. Then they’re all decked out in pink Lululemon.”
“I don’t know what pink Lululemon is, but it sounds delicious.” She laughs and shakes her head. “It’s designer workout gear, but you’re on the right track with the delicious thing. They’re always drying herbs and testing out gourmet recipes or hosting these elaborate wine dinners. They’re the ultimate put-together, ultra-feminine hostesses.” “I see.” I sip my own wine and stretch one arm over the back of the sofa. I’m not trying to put my arm around her, exactly, but I do enjoy the feel of her hair tickling my wrist. “Are you saying you’re not the ultimate put-together, ultra-feminine hostess?” “God, no!” She looks horrified for an instant, then softens her expression. “I don’t mean to disparage my sisters. They mean well. It’s just—well, I play with dirt for a living. Lisa—she’s a couple years younger than Missy—she asked for a curling iron for her eighth birthday. I asked for a microscope.” “This is starting to make sense now.” And it is. Just these few tidbits of information about Cassie are letting me understand where she’s coming from. What makes her tick. “They loved the kitchen spanking story,” she says a little wistfully. “Know what’s dumb?” “What’s that?” “I’m not even sure I know what a spatula is.” “A spatula?” I frown and try to conjure an image of my own collection of kitchen gadgets. “What do you mean? It’s that tool you use to flip pancakes, isn’t it?” “That’s the thing. When I told them the story, I was picturing one of those wand-looking gadgets with the rubber-smacky part on the end.” I frown, completely clueless what the hell she’s talking about. “Like a turkey baster?” “No, that’s not it at all.” She stands up and starts toward the kitchen with her wineglass in hand. I follow suit, not sure whether I’m more intrigued by the mystery kitchen gadget or by the sway of Cassie’s hips in that skirt. She halts beside the stove and drags a big terracotta pot of utensils across the counter. Plucking one from the bouquet of silicone and metal, she holds it up for me to inspect. “This. Isn’t this a spatula?” The tool she’s holding is what my mom used to scrape brownie batter off the sides of a mixing bowl. I feel a pang of sadness at the memory of my mother, who died in a car wreck with my dad ten years ago. It’s a weird contrast to how turned-on I feel with Cassie standing in front of me holding the kitchen implement like a flogger. “That’s a rubber scraper,” I tell her. “At least that’s what my mother and grandmother always called it.” “A rubber scraper?” She frowns like I might be making this up. “It’s true.” I lean against the counter and take a sip of wine. “Then I got to middle school and learned what a rubber was. I started snickering every time my mom asked me to hand her the rubber scraper, so she stopped calling it that after a while.” Cassie laughs and sets the gadget down on the counter. She plucks another utensil from the collection and holds it up. “So, this must be a spatula, then?”
I can’t believe she’s asking me, or that I’m honestly not sure. Is it more surprising that we’re having this conversation as foreplay to BDSM or that I’m not actually certain about the names of kitchen utensils? I look at the one she’s holding up and shrug. “I always called that a flipper. You know, for flipping pancakes?” “You make pancakes?” “Sure.” She looks oddly in awe of this, and I feel an unexpected swell of pride. I came here hoping to wow her with my hair-pulling, ass-smacking alpha-maleness, and here she is looking impressed by my culinary skills. “That’s the tool I grab whenever I need to flip pancakes or grilled cheese sandwiches,” I continue. “I guess that’s why I’ve always called it a flipper.” Cassie gives the flipper a rueful glare. “Then which one is the spatula?” “I’m not sure. Maybe different people call them different things?” Cassie sighs. “Getting through The List is going to be more complicated than I thought.” I love that she’s trying so hard to get this right. That it matters to her that the kitchen gadget I use to smack her ass is called by the correct name. “You said your sisters cook a lot, right?” “Right.” She leans against the counter, distracting me with the sight of those rounded breasts in profile. “They’re like Martha Stewart on crack.” “So why don’t you ask them?” Cassie blinks. “Call my sisters to ask which kitchen gadget you should use to spank me?” “I wouldn’t phrase it quite like that, but yes.” She sets down the flipper and gives me a curious look. “That’s actually not a bad idea.” Before I can say anything else, she’s grabbed her iPhone off the table and is hitting a speed-dial number. She’s four feet away, but I can hear a woman’s voice answer on the other end of the line. “Hey, Missy, it’s me. Listen, I have a question about cooking.” There’s some chatter on the other end of the line, and Cassie seems to hesitate before responding. “Uh —brownies.” I can’t make out the sister’s reply, but I hear a muffled squeal of joy or surprise. Cassie glances at me and rolls her eyes. She mouths the words, “I told you,” but all I can think about is how amazing those lips would feel wrapped around my— “I’m licking them right now,” Cassie says. I almost drop my wineglass. I’m glad Cassie just turned her back so she can’t see me gaping at her like an idiot. “And yes, I turned off the beaters before sticking my tongue in them. That’s not what I wanted to know, though.” She turns back to me, and I pick up the rubber scraper and the spatula and pantomime a two-handed spanking using both tools in rapid succession. It looked a lot cooler in my mind, but in reality, I probably look like a dork playing air drums. Cassie giggles.
“I just need to know which tool is the right one,” she says. “The brownie batter keeps getting stuck to the side of the bowl. What should I use to get it off?” Her sister prattles on for a helluva lot longer than it should take to answer that question. I catch snippets of the lecture, words like “silicone head” and “spreader,” which sound a whole lot dirtier than Missy probably means them to. “Oh,” Cassie says. “So, that’s not a flipper or a turner or whatever?” More words from Missy. Cassie seems like she’s only half listening now. Her gaze has dropped to the tool gripped in my right hand, and I can tell she’s imagining what it might feel like smacking hard against her soft flesh. I set down the flipper and draw back the rubber scraper. That seems to be the gadget that piques her interest the most. The one she mentioned first. Regardless of what it’s called, I suspect it’s what I’ll use to fulfill her fantasy. I hold my left hand out flat and open my fingers. Cassie watches, mesmerized, while her sister drones on. I draw back the rubber scraper in my right hand, winding up like a batter. She licks her lips, gaze fixed on my open palm. I bring the scraper down hard, whacking the rubber head against the center of my palm. Smack! “Oh!” Cassie gasps. Her cheeks flush pink, and I hear her sister asking what just happened. “Nothing,” Cassie says. “I—uh—I’ve gotta go. Uh-huh. Love you, too.” She hangs up the phone before her sister can ask more questions. Her eyes are still fixed on the tool in my hand, and I watch as she licks her lips again. “We can call it a spatula. Um, I could tell you all the etymology Missy just explained, and how—” “That won’t be necessary.” She nods once. “Good.” “This is the tool you wanted?” I ask. “What you imagined when you told them the story?” She nods and watches me set it down on the counter. I swear she looks disappointed, but there’s something I need to get out of the way before I lay a hand on her. “Do you want to have a safe word?” “A safe word?” “Yeah. It’s a word we agree on beforehand that—” “I know what a safe word is. I’ve read Fifty Shades, remember?” I don’t know why I’m happy to hear she’s not working from personal experience, but I am. “I think it would be a smart idea to have one. For both of us.” “Okay.” She frowns. “How about Jory?” “Jury? As in trial by?” “No, Jory. As in Oregon’s state soil.” “Oregon has a state soil?” She sighs and picks up her wineglass, then takes a small sip before she sets it back down on the counter. “Fine. You come up with something.” “Okay.” I think about it for a few beats. “How about a computer term? Something like gigabyte?”
“Gigabyte?” She rolls her eyes. “I’m not going to remember to yell gigabyte if you smack my ass too hard.” “All right.” I step a little closer, brushing against her on purpose as I grab a second spatula from the container. This one is bright orange with a bigger head than the first one she’d grabbed. She watches me turn it over in my hand, and I tap it softly against my palm. “Maybe we should choose a sexy safe word,” I suggest. “Sexy. Yes, that’s good.” “Lube?” She shakes her head. “What if I’m actually asking for it?” “You are kinda asking for it.” I grin, and Cassie rolls her eyes again. I love that she can be simultaneously turned on and playful. I set the spatula down and reach for her. I take my time sliding a hand down her side, memorizing the curve of her hip. She shivers under my palm, then shifts her weight to lean into my touch. “How about salacious?” I suggest. “Arouse? Stimulate?” I’ve never used vocabulary words as a seduction technique before, but it seems to be working. With Cassie, anyway. I caress her hip again, then continue up. My palm dips into the curve of her waist and keeps going, barely grazing the side of her breast. Cassie gives a soft groan. “Don’t you think there’s a chance words like those might come up in conversation?” Her voice is high and strained as I cup her left breast in my hand. The fabric of her shirt is cool and slippery, but underneath I can feel how warm she is. I stroke my thumb over her nipple, rewarded by another soft gasp. “Perhaps.” I run my hand down her body, taking my time stroking her waist, her hip, her ass. I find the hem of her skirt and slide up until my fingers make contact with the edge of her panties. Cassie gasps and grips the counter. “How about undulate?” I suggest. “Rhythmic? Lubricious?” She moans aloud as I ease a finger under the elastic of her panties. I’m surprised to find her already wet, and I wonder if she was touching herself before I got here or if this happened in the last couple minutes. Either way, she feels fucking amazing. I dip a finger into her, and she moans again. My cock strains at the front of my pants. “Oh, God,” she groans when I slide my finger inside her, all the way to the second knuckle. Her hips seem to move without her consent, tilting toward me to offer just the right angle. With the hand that’s not touching her, I lift my wineglass to my lips and chug the last of it. Then I set the glass aside and turn my full attention on her. “Surely, we can find a good safe word,” I say. “How about plunge? Or maybe erotic.” Cassie gives a low little moan in the back of her throat. I don’t even know if she’s hearing my words. Her eyes are closed, and she’s rocking against my finger like she’s fucking my hand. The rhythm is slow and sweet, and I’m not certain she realizes she’s doing it. “Susurrus,” I whisper, leaning close so she can feel my breath on her throat.
She laughs, though it comes out more like a moan. “I don’t even know what that means.” “Susurrus,” I repeat. “Whispering, murmuring.” I lean closer, letting my lips brush her earlobe as I draw out each syllable. “Simon—” “I don’t think Simon is a good safe word,” I whisper. “I plan to make you scream it by the time we’re through.” She whimpers and grinds herself against my finger. “Please.” “Definitely not a good safe word.” She turns and grabs me by the front of the shirt. Her eyes are a little wild, and she’s tight around my finger, her pussy slick and hot. She slides her fingers up my arms, and her eyes are pleading. “Please,” she whispers again. “I want you. Now. Please.” Then she presses her lips to mine.
Chapter Six CASSIE There’s something absurdly sexy about the contrast between the two sides of Simon. There’s the guy who makes goofy jokes about rubber scrapers and plays drums with my kitchen utensils. Then there’s the alpha-male version who made my whole body scream with need the instant he slapped that spatula against his palm. I kinda like both. But right now, it’s the alpha version who’s making my blood sing as he yanks out my low, padded barstool and points to it. “On your knees,” he says, spinning me around to face the counter. He pushes me down with a gentle palm in the small of my back, and I go willingly. I brace myself on the edge of the counter the instant my knees sink onto the cushioned stool. We’re both still fully clothed, and something about that makes it even hotter than if we were totally naked. He reaches over and hits the dimmer switch for the light over my kitchen bar, transforming the bright glare into something soft and warm. Then he slides his hands up my thighs and pushes my skirt up around my hips. I suck in a breath as his palm skims the satin of my bikini panties. From the corner of my eye, I see his other hand grab the orange spatula off the counter. “Very nice,” he says, and I’m not sure if he’s talking about my ass, my undies, or my taste in kitchen gadgets. His hand grazing my ass leaves me feeling fiery and eager for him to keep doing this. Goosebumps ripple up my arms as he continues caressing me. His touch is feathery and light, and I lean into it, craving more. “Oh, no you don’t,” he says, pushing me back into position. One of his hands leaves my body, and I hear myself give a small moan of frustration. Simon laughs. Then I hear the unmistakable sound of his belt being unbuckled. My mouth starts to water, and I try to imagine what he has in mind. When his other hand leaves my ass, I crane my head to look. He’s standing there in boxer briefs and pulling his shirt off. Tossing it aside, he gives me a stern look and picks up the spatula. “Did I say you could turn around?” “Just enjoying the view.” The smack is quick and unexpected, jolting me forward against the counter. My right ass cheek stings, and I gasp aloud—half shock, half pleasure. “Turn around,” he commands.
I’m tempted to disobey, hoping he’ll punish me with another smack. But I do what he says, my flesh still tingling where the spatula made contact. “There you go.” His voice is low and close to my ear, and I realize he’s leaning down over me. Then I feel it. Something hard and smooth grazing the back of my panties. It’s his cock, and he’s skimming it over the very cheek he just smacked, soothing it through the thin satin of my panties. I moan and press into him again. I’m soaking wet and dying to have him yank the panties down my thighs so he can sheathe himself inside me again, just like he did Saturday night. I’ve been feeling him for days, craving the thickness of him sliding all the way to the hilt. But he keeps my panties in place and continues to tease me. He glides all that glorious length into the cleft of my ass, rubbing and pressing until I moan again. The head of it grazes my tailbone, and I close my eyes. Jesus, I had no idea my tailbone was any sort of erogenous zone. The pressure feels amazing, and Simon seems to know it. His fingers slide into the hair at the nape of my neck, then tighten around it. I feel my eyes go wide as he wraps his fist around my makeshift ponytail and pulls back. The pressure is firm, but not a yank. Not anything that’s going to snap my neck, but it’s sure as hell letting me know he’s in charge. “You like that?” he murmurs into my ear. “You like feeling my cock up against your ass like that?” I nod, and since he’s still gripping my hair in his fist, it pulls tighter. I’m amazed by how much I love it. He gives another soft tug, sending tingles of sensation from the root of each hair all the way to my toes. The next smack lands on the outside of my left ass cheek, and I yelp and buck against him. He pins me in place, his body pressed against mine, his lips still grazing my ear. His fist still grips my hair, and my flesh sizzles where he slapped it. “You want to feel me inside you?” “Yes.” The word comes out strangled, which probably belies just how badly I want that. Urgently. I can feel my whole body clenching with the thought of having him again. “Not yet,” he murmurs against my throat. He kisses me there, feathery, light brushes of his lips all the way from the nape of my neck to my ear. He lets go of my hair, and I hate to admit I’m disappointed. But then he grabs the hem of my top and pulls it up and over my head. My hair tangles on a button, and I realize even that sensation turns me on. He tosses the top aside and reaches for me again. I’m still wearing my bra and pleased to recall I wore my prettiest set. Yellow satin and lace, with bikini panties that feel silky to the touch. My sisters would approve. For crying out loud, stop thinking about your sisters. My skirt is still hiked up around my hips, and I hope he’s enjoying the view as much as I’m enjoying everything he’s done to me so far. Simon leans down again and plants a light kiss in the spot where my neck meets my shoulder. He kisses his way across my shoulder and down, landing a slow, feathery trail down my spine.
When he gets to my ass, I shiver. He kisses the spot where he delivered the spatula blow moments before, then takes his time getting to the other side. By the time he’s kissed both cheeks thoroughly, I’m practically dripping with need. I don’t know if he’s done this a million times before or what, but the man certainly knows how to tease every last nerve. How to alternate between whisper-soft caresses that leave my flesh humming and firm, stinging smacks that make my blood fizz with delight. “What do you think?” he muses. “Should we take off these panties?” “Yes, please.” He laughs and slides his fingers into the waistband. “So polite.” He takes his time pulling them down my thighs, and I move one knee, then the other, so he can tug them off over my ankles. It occurs to me that I still have my shoes on, and I wonder if I look like a porn star. I kinda feel like one, and I like that. I like it a lot. With my panties gone and my skirt hiked up over my hips, I feel exposed. I’m leaning with my elbows on my kitchen counter wearing just my bra and skirt and a pair of high-heeled shoes I practiced in all weekend so I wouldn’t look like a hack. If I’m going to be the brazen vixen who fulfills all her sexual fantasies, I damn sure want to look the part. Simon’s palm skims my left ass cheek again, and I know what’s coming. My skin prickles with anticipation. I hold my breath, waiting for it. But the smack lands on my right cheek instead, harder this time. I gasp as my flesh sings, a high, sharp pitch that rings in my ears. Every nerve in my lower half is on fire, and I’m still reeling from it when he smacks me again. It’s the left cheek this time, closer to my tailbone, and I realize he’s taking great care not to strike the same spot twice in rapid succession. “Simon, please,” I beg, not entirely sure what I’m asking for. Another smack? His fist in my hair again? No, that’s not it. And he seems to know it. “You want my cock inside you?” I nod, too mind-whacked to form words. But he wants more. “Say it,” he says. I crane my neck and throw an insolent look over my shoulder. “Simon says fuck me.” The smack lands hard on my right cheek, just like I hoped it would. I cry out, more pleasure than pain, though I’m realizing what a delicious combination the two can be. I also realize Simon’s poised to grant my wish, since I caught a glimpse of a condom in his hand when I turned to look. Sure enough, he plants his palms on my ass and pushes me forward, spreading me open as he does. “So fucking beautiful,” he grinds out as his dick glides against my slippery folds. “And so goddamn wet.” I am wet. I’ve never been this wet before, and I’m pretty sure I’m going to pass out if he doesn’t slide inside me right here, right now. Sensing my need, he grabs a fistful of my hair again and gives a light tug. I feel my back arching and my
ass tipping up to give him the perfect angle. He takes it. In one easy stroke, he buries himself to the hilt. I cry out, filled to my breaking point with pleasure. He’s still tugging my hair, but I feel his grip loosen as he leans down to whisper in my ear. “How do you want it?” he murmurs. “Slow and deep, or hard and fast?” “Yes, to all of it,” I pant, feeling like a kid in a candy shop. I want everything. Gummy bears and chocolate nibs and salt licorice and Simon pounding into me over and over again until I come my brains out. He laughs, and for a second I think he’s read my thoughts. But he’s read my eagerness instead, and he seems happy to indulge me. He sets the spatula down on the counter and grabs my hips with both hands. “Very well.” He starts out slow, letting me feel the full length of him sliding all the way in, then back out again until he’s almost pulled out completely. The walls of my sex clutch him with greedy need as he pushes in again, impossibly deep this time. I groan and grip the edge of the counter with one hand, slipping my fingers between my legs. “That’s it,” he urges. “Touch your clit.” I hardly need permission, but I’m thrilled to know he wants me to. That it might actually turn him on. I had a boyfriend once who felt threatened by it. Who thought it was some sort of threat to his manhood if I touched myself in bed. But Simon knows how female anatomy works. Good God, does he ever. I can feel the orgasm building inside me. The bone-deep kind, the kind that goes on for endless, breathless seconds and leaves you feeling the aftershocks days later. I cry out when the first wave hits me. Smack! It’s my left cheek this time, and he smacked it with an open palm. It stings like holy hell, but oh-myfucking-God the pleasure. It’s like nothing I’ve ever felt, raw and throbbing with every nerve in my body screaming. I’m still coming, harder than I’ve ever come in my life, and this time I feel his palm land hard on my right cheek. The smack of skin on skin sends another blast of pleasure through me, and I cry out again. “Cassie,” he groans, and I realize he’s close, too. As I ride every last wave of this orgasm, it dawns on me that I’m not the only one feeling out of control here. He moans in my ear, and I can feel his cock pulsing inside me as he thrusts into me again and again. My skin is still humming when he goes still. Slowly, he slides his hand off my ass. He pulls out of me, and I straighten up and turn around. He kisses me on the mouth, surprisingly tender after the paddling he just gave my backside. As he slips into the bathroom to get rid of the condom, I tug my skirt down and glance around for my top. Simon comes back from the bathroom and flashes me a grin that’s almost sheepish. “You okay?” Something twists in my heart at the thought that he’s concerned with my well-being. Maybe it’s that he
doesn’t want me to call the cops, but I’m pretty sure that’s not it. “I’m great.” I’m trying for upbeat and cool, but I sound a little breathless. I hop off the barstool and smooth the front of my skirt with my palms. Where did my shirt go? “Here.” He finds it under my dining room table and hands it to me, and I pull it on. Why does getting dressed after sex always feel more intimate than getting undressed before it? Simon pulls on his boxer briefs and jeans, but leaves his shirt off. I’m fully dressed again, and I pat my hair down and meet his gaze. He smiles and steps forward to take me into his arms. I hug back, surprised by how familiar this feels. Even more familiar than having him inside me. My whole body is purring, and I think I could die right now and be happy. “That was incredible,” he murmurs into my hair. “Unreal,” I agree. “Was it what you thought it would be?” I smile at the sweetness of the question. He’s not fishing for an ego stroke the way some guys would be. He really wants to know how the reality matched my fantasy. “Kinda,” I reply. “I like the contrast of pleasure and pain. I don’t think I would have been into it if you’d just paddled me raw without all those soothing little touches.” “Good. I’m glad you liked it.” He draws back a little to look at me. “You still up for this? The rest of The List, I mean?” I nod, grateful he’s checking in with me. That he thinks to make sure my brain is on the same page as the rest of my body. “Yeah,” I tell him. “I’m having fun.” “Fun,” he repeats. “I’m glad we’re doing this.” “Me, too.” He pulls me in for another hug, and I slide my arms around his waist once more. As I tighten my hold on him, I remind myself to keep a firm grip on my heart.
Chapter Seven SIMON I don’t call Cassie the next day. Or the day after that. It’s not that I don’t want to. Frankly, I want to call her so badly I have to kick my own ass to keep myself from dialing her number. Which is a problem, in my mind. We established the boundaries pretty clearly. This is about sex and nothing more. We both get to scratch an itch without any attachments being formed. So, I’m doing my part to make sure that happens. That doesn’t mean my heart doesn’t leap into my throat when I see her number pop up on my phone around ten on Sunday morning. “Hey there,” she says, sending a jolt of dopamine from my brain through my body. “Hadn’t heard from you for a couple days, so I wanted to make sure you’re still on board for helping me with The List.” Her tone is breezy and casual, and I can’t tell if she genuinely doesn’t care or if she’s playing that card so I don’t think she’s desperate or too available. I know the latter isn’t true, since Cassie Michaels is a far, far cry from desperate. That leaves me to assume she might not care, which makes me feel shittier than it ought to. As far as her list goes, a cock is a cock. Whether it’s mine or someone else’s, she’ll have no trouble crossing off the rest of the items. My brain flashes on the image of Cassie with someone else. Screaming his name as he performs the Post Hole Digger, whatever the hell that is. I picture the bliss-dazed look on her face as another woman grazes those beautiful breasts with soft fingertips as they lean close and share a kiss. I suddenly feel hollow and angry and jealous and I don’t know why, but I do know one thing. I need to see Cassie again. “Sorry I’ve been out of touch,” I tell her as I settle back onto my black leather sofa. “I’m definitely still in. If you want me, I mean.” “I want you.” I can hear the smile in her voice, and it reroutes all the blood in my brain straight to my groin. “Well okay, then,” I say. “What’s next?” Cassie clears her throat, all business now. “I was doing a little research for item number three.” “Number three?”
“The pokey wheelie thing,” she says. “The Wartenberg wheel? I found a ton of them for sale online.” Her focus on this device is charming to me. There’s something oddly sweet about Cassie’s interest in it. The fact that it stems from her own science background, or maybe it’s the fact that she’s eager to follow through with something she admits she wrote down on a drunken whim. In any case, I love the idea of her browsing sex toys on Amazon. “Did you find something you like?” I stroke a hand over the arm of my sofa and wonder what it would be like to have her sitting here next to me. Would it feel natural to put my hand on her knee, to have her tuck her feet up under her and lean in close? I like that mental picture a lot more than I wish I did. “That’s the thing,” she says. “There are some Wartenberg wheels that have seven rows of pins, and some with three, and some that have just one. And some that advertise really sharp pins, and some that boast about the quantity of pins. How do I know what I need?” “That depends,” I say. “Are you planning to get off with it or use it for neurological testing?” She laughs, and I picture her there on the sofa thumbing through her laptop. “That’s what’s weird. I’m finding some of them listed under ‘medical supplies,’ and some listed under ‘novelty and more.’” “Hang on, let me look.” I grab my iPad off the coffee table and pull up Amazon, joining her in the online quest for the perfect sex toy. I type in the keywords and find myself staring at a veritable cornucopia of sharp little pinwheels. “Wow. This is impressive. Did you notice they’ve got some categorized under ‘tools and home improvement,’ subcategory ‘hole punches’?” “Good Lord,” Cassie says. “Let’s hope no one gets mixed up and sends their third grader to class with one of these in the school supplies box.” I chuckle and continue flipping through reviews on one of the more popular implements. Something tickles my big toe, and I glance down to see a daddy longlegs spider scuttle across the Italian marble floor. “Aaaarrh!” I bellow, jerking my feet up onto the couch. “Holy shit!” “Simon? Are you okay?” “Fuck!” I yelp, but the spider is gone. Jesus. “What is it? What’s wrong? Simon—” “I’m fine, it’s okay,” I assure her. “I just saw a spider.” She’s quiet a moment. “A spider?” “Yes, a spider. A daddy longlegs.” “You know they can’t bite, right?” She sounds amused, but at least she’s not laughing at me. “I hate spiders, okay? I’ll get the gardener to call an exterminator—” “You have a gardener?” Crap. A guy who works in a computer store wouldn’t have a gardener, would he? It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell her right then. To explain about the career, the finances, the magazine articles that have made me unexpectedly famous in certain circles. The whole mess.
But that’s been the catalyst for screwing up every relationship I’ve ever had, and I’m not ready to sabotage what I’ve got going with Cassie right now. “I’m joking about the gardener,” I mutter. “I’ll pick up a can of bug spray at Home Depot.” I drop back onto the sofa and pick up the iPad again, feeling more than a little embarrassed. “So back to the Wartenberg wheel. Are you looking at this one with the three rows of spikes?” “Hang on, what’s the item number?” I rattle it off, then wait for her to pull it up so we’re looking at the same page. I lean back against the sofa and wish she were here next to me, her hair brushing my arm as she leans over my lap to peer at the screen. “Okay, I found it,” she says. “Check out the second review down. The one titled, ‘You get what you pay for.’ See it?” “Yeah.” She snorts. “He’s questioning whether it’s really stainless steel and suggesting you not use an autoclave to sterilize it.” “Think that’s a medical professional or someone who’s really dedicated to cleanliness when it comes to sex toys?” “If it’s the latter, I can’t imagine having sex with that guy,” she says. “He’d be checking the pillowcases for hair samples and whipping out the antibacterial spray every five minutes.” I laugh, enjoying the easy banter with her as I scroll through more reviews on the device. “Here’s one titled, ‘Great product!’” I read. “It says, ‘everybody needs at least one.’ Think that’s someone who’s using it as a sex toy or a neurological device?” “Sex toy,” Cassie decides. She’s quiet for a moment, and I picture her scrolling down the same page. I can’t decide if this is flirtation, a mild form of phone sex, or just a fun conversation. Either way, I’m enjoying myself. “Here’s another review,” she says. “It’s titled. ‘Problem screw.’” “Sounds unfortunate.” “Right, but the review says, ‘Screw fell out after first use, but easy to repair. Just watch out for the screw.’ Think that’s a sex toy user or a medical user?” “Medical,” I decide. “Wouldn’t they make a screw joke otherwise?” “Good point,” she says. “How about ‘best value for the money’?” “Sex toy. I can appreciate budget-conscious kink.” I don’t say anything else, hopeful that solidifies her belief I’m just an average Joe with a less-than-impressive bank account. I keep scrolling, enjoying the easy banter between us. “How about this one that says, ‘Broke five minutes after using.’” “Tough call,” she says. “Maybe medical use on that one. Then again, I could see the sex toy user being the one to apply a little too much pressure.” “You notice some of the ‘also purchased’ items at the bottom?” I ask. “Looks like polypropylene rope, leather floggers, and coconut oil are popular accompaniments.”
“So is a UV sanitizing wand and this really expensive eye cream.” “For people who squeeze their eyes shut during kinky sex, but don’t want wrinkles?” I suggest. She bursts out laughing, and I realize this is becoming my favorite sound in the world. Even more than the sound of Cassie screaming my name when she comes. “Tell you what,” I say. “There’s a pretty good adult store a few blocks from your apartment. How about I swing by and grab a Wartenberg wheel that we know is meant for our intended purposes.” “You mean right now?” “Sure,” I say, then realize I’m being a presumptuous asshole. “If you’re free, I mean.” She hesitates a few beats, and I’m opening my mouth to suggest another day when she replies. “I can’t do it tonight,” she says. “I have to go to a baby shower for my sister’s best friend.” “A baby shower?” There’s something hilarious about the idea of Cassie chatting me up about kink while she’s getting ready for a baby shower, but I realize she’s not laughing. “Yeah,” she says. “It’s this ‘all-white’ themed shower my sister’s been planning for months. Apparently white symbolizes goodness, innocence, and purity.” The glum note is unmistakable in Cassie’s voice, and I’m not sure how to respond to that. “You have to go?” “I do. I’m supposed to help Lisa polish the white porcelain serving dishes so she can set out all kinds of white candy. And then I’ll help blow up a bunch of white balloons and string up white streamers so we can all ooh and ahh over them while we eat our white cake over a table covered with a white tablecloth.” “This is sounding very—” “Pretentious?” “I was trying to come up with a less judgmental word, but yeah. I guess that’s it.” “They don’t mean it to be,” she says. “It’s just how they are. It’s just what they’re into.” “So, you can’t blow it off?” “No. I want to help. I promised I would, even though it’s not really my scene. Besides, my sister loaned me her car two weeks ago when mine was being serviced. I owe her a favor.” She hesitates, and I listen to the silence, wondering if she’s about to change her mind. But that’s not what’s going on in Cassie Michaels’s head. “I really do love them,” she says at last. “They’re a challenge sometimes, but my sisters are the best people I know. They’d each give me a kidney if I needed one, and I’d do the same for them.” “Ah. That makes sense.” And it does. I consider telling her about Junie. About how I started the WorkAbility program so adults with disabilities—people just like Junie—could have opportunities to be productive. To know they have value in society. But I clamp my mouth shut and bite back the words. I can’t afford to go there. I don’t mean financially, though money is certainly a factor. It’s been a factor in every relationship I’ve had, starting when the
woman realizes I’m stupidly wealthy, and ending when she discovers life with me won’t be like an episode of the Kardashians. I don’t say any of this to Cassie. Instead, I offer up a perfectly bland remark. “Sibling relationships are complicated.” “That they are.” I wait to see if she’ll volunteer more. If she’ll offer further intimate details about her life or her relationship with the siblings. I hate how curious I am. How much I’m enjoying getting to know her. I know I need to keep a rein on things, to keep this whole thing in the ballpark of a sexual relationship. It can’t be more than that. We’ve both agreed. But still, I wonder about her. I want to know more. “How about another time for the pokey wheelie thing,” I suggest. “Good idea. A pokey wheelie rain check.” “Actually, what would you say to a date?” “A date?” She sounds skeptical, and I hope I haven’t crossed some line in our agreement to keep things purely sexual. “Not a date, exactly,” I tell her. “I just think we should sit down together and make a plan for the rest of The List.” “Oh. That sounds smart.” “We could even keep our clothes on. Maybe grab a bite to eat or something.” “Okay.” I can’t tell from her tone if she likes the idea or hates it. But when she speaks again, I hear the smile in her voice. “I’d like that. I’d like it a lot.” So do I. And that scares the shit out of me.
Chapter Eight CASSIE This is the weirdest business meeting in the history of business meetings. I’m sitting with Simon—whose last name, embarrassingly, I do not recall—eating dry-rubbed pork ribs, smoked fried chicken, beef belly, and huge mounds of collard greens and potato salad. It was my idea to hit this hole-in-the-wall barbecue joint on North Williams. The food is excellent at The People’s Pig, and I wanted to avoid any sense that this is a date-date. I’m not looking for a relationship and neither is he, so I’m pretty sure a restaurant with “pig” in the name says “we’re fuck buddies” and not “I want to marry you and have your babies.” That’s just a guess. There’s another reason I picked this place. I get the sense Simon doesn’t have much money. He’s always walking everywhere, and I’m not even sure he owns a car. I can’t imagine his job pays all that well, so it seems wise to keep things casual and cheap. As I pick up another rib and smile at him across the battered wooden table, I pat myself on the back for choosing the right locale. This feels like the perfect spot to discuss strategy for the rest of the Fucket List. It’s strange to call it that now. It started as a way to remember all the lies I’d told—to commit them to memory for retelling at the bachelorette party. But now…I don’t know. Is it weird that it took me this long to realize all those naughty fibs were really my secret sex fantasies? “Tell me about item number eight,” Simon says. I wipe sauce off my chin with the back of my hand and take a sip of my sweet tea. “Item number eight,” I repeat. “Was that the roleplay one?” He laughs and shakes his head. “No, that’s number nine. How is it that I know your list better than you do?” “Because I was drunk when I wrote it, and it’s comprised entirely of fibs I kinda wish I’d never told?” “Do you really? Wish you’d never told them, I mean?” I hesitate a moment, not sure how to respond. If I’d never made up all those sex stories, I wouldn’t be sitting here now eating barbecue with a hot guy whose handprint I swear I can still feel on my ass. That would be unfortunate. “There was probably a better way to convince my sisters I wasn’t boring or pathetic,” I say at last. “Fair enough.” He sips his own soft drink, then gives me a thoughtful look. “Still, it seems like you put
a lot of thought into each experience. Even if it was all made up.” I shrug, not sure how much to reveal. “I guess so. I mean, some of them are a little cliché.” “Like what?” “The girl-on-girl thing.” A waitress glances over at me, and it dawns on me how close together these tables are. I lower my voice and lean closer to Simon. Not much of a hardship. “Aren’t most millennial women at least a little bit bi-curious?” He laughs, but the look he gives me is thoughtful. Like he’s really considering it instead of making sexual wisecracks. I admire the hell out of him for that. “That’s a good point,” he says. “It’s certainly more prevalent in pop culture these days. Katy Perry heralded in a whole movement with ‘I Kissed a Girl.’” “Exactly.” I’m charmed that he even knows who Katy Perry is, or that he’s interested in having conversations about my desires. That he seems to care whether the experiences on The List mean something to me or if I cobbled them together on a drunken whim. Most guys would be whipping through my sexy checklist with a boner in one hand and a Sharpie in the other, eager to mark off one salacious act after another. But Simon’s really giving it some consideration. I fork up a bite of collard greens and chew carefully. “I read a study last year that said forty-three percent of eighteen- to twenty-four-year-olds indicated some level of fluid sexuality.” “Fluid sexuality,” he repeats. “I’ve never heard that term before, but I like it. Seems more accurate than bi-curious.” “It does, doesn’t it?” I take another sip of tea. “Also, twenty-nine percent of respondents in the twentyfive- to thirty-nine-year-old age range said their sexuality was fluid to some degree.” He laughs and takes a bite out of a pork rib. “I love that you know the science behind it. That’s sexy as hell.” There’s nothing mocking in his tone. Actually, there’s a hint of admiration. The fact that we’ve agreed there’s no plan for a relationship here has lent a certain comfort level to this connection. I’m not trying to impress Simon, and he’s not trying to impress me. Hence the barbecue sauce up to my elbows. “I suppose reading that study is what gave me the idea for the fib I told my sisters,” I say. “That, and Katy Perry. I guess it’s a little out there.” “So, are you wanting to skip that one?” He pushes a pile of napkins across the table, and I take one with a nod of thanks. “It’s okay if you’re not really into it,” he adds. “There’s no rule that says you have to cross off every experience you wrote on The List.” I think about it a moment, dabbing my mouth with a napkin. The truth is, I’m curious. I’m not sure I would have realized that if Simon and I weren’t sitting here talking through the details like a pair of overachieving academics determined to analyze a situation from all angles. But the truth is, I really want to do it. “I’d like to go ahead with it,” I say. “I want to know what it feels like to kiss another woman. To have
her hands on my body.” “I can’t tell you how much I enjoy that mental picture.” I laugh. “Pig.” “Oink.” He grins and bites into another pork rib. I lose my train of thought for a moment as I consider how hot it is to see him gnawing on a rib bone like some sort of caveman. Don’t get me wrong, he has perfect manners. Better than most people in this funky little barbecue joint that doesn’t even give you plates. Just a big platter of meat and sides and a massive pile of napkins. Simon licks sauce off his finger, and the sight of his mouth in action reminds me of how much fun we had the other night with the spatula. I’m not planning to go hardcore BDSM anytime soon, but this man certainly knows the secret to combining pleasure and pain. “So back to The List,” he says, jarring me into the conversation again. “You didn’t just say, ‘sex at a spa,’ like a lot of people would do. You wrote, ‘Naughty spa day at super-snooty place for rich assholes.’ That’s kinda specific.” “And kind of embarrassing, now that I’m sober,” I admit. “It makes me sound like a Kardashian.” Something flashes in his eyes, and I wonder what that’s about. He recovers quickly, leading me to think maybe I imagined the whole thing. “Not a Kardashian, exactly,” he says slowly. “Just a woman who knows what she wants.” He’s studying me a little too intently, so I grab the coleslaw and shovel up a few bites, buying myself a little time to figure out how to respond. Finally, I set the salad down. “I guess like everything to do with this list, it’s about my sisters,” I say at last. “They’re always jetting off on these romantic vacations and splurging on luxury experiences. They have kind of expensive taste.” There’s that flicker again, a flash of something in his eyes. I’m pretty sure I’m not imagining it, and I make a mental note to tone down any conversations about money. Clearly, it’s a touchy subject for him. “Anyway,” I continue. “I guess it’s about wanting to fit in with my sisters just a little, but maybe doing it my way. Like I’d still enjoy getting pampered at a place like that, but I’d like to do it on my own terms. Like instead of a fancy pedicure, I’d like to do one of those mud baths I’ve seen on TV. And I’d like to do it with someone. And after we’d gotten all muddy, we’d get cleaned up together, and then get really dirty.” “Jesus.” Simon wipes his mouth with a napkin and grins. “You do have an impressive sexual imagination.” “Thank you.” The compliment means more to me than he probably realizes. Usually people praise my skill at preparing slides or cleaning the centrifuge, so I enjoy being acknowledged for something sexy. “Anyway, my sisters ate it up when I told them the story about the naughty spa day. You should have seen the look on their faces.” I hate how wistful my voice sounds, but Simon doesn’t bat an eye. “So you’re hoping to make it true now.” “Something like that.” I take another sip of tea. “It’s not that I want to have their lives. I don’t want to host garden parties and wear Lilly Pulitzer.”
“You just want your own version of their lives,” he says slowly. “The Cassie-fied version.” I blink at him, not sure whether to feel understood or creeped out. We agreed up front this was a nostrings-attached thing. How deeply should I allow him to tunnel into my brain? I settle for throwing him a casual laugh. “Maybe. So how about you?” Hey, if he’s opening the door to this game of get-to-know-the-person-I’m-fucking, I’m happy to step through it. He’s seemed reluctant to share a lot of personal details up to this point, but maybe that’s shifting. “What about me?” he asks. He’s probably braced for me to ask him a sex question—how many of the things on my list he’s done with other women already or something along those lines. But that’s not what comes out of my mouth. “Tell me about your job.” He seems to hesitate. “What do you want to know?” I take a sip of lemonade and consider why I asked the question. “What got you interested in computers? In repairing them or selling them or anything else you do?” It’s a standard get-to-know-you question, but I realize after I ask it that I really want to know. I’m interested in hearing what makes Simon tick. “I like figuring out how things work,” he says carefully. “How to diagnose problems and fix them for people. I love troubleshooting and educating people about how to make their machines run better. I also like the mystery element.” “Mystery?” “Yeah. I like when people come to me with a problem. I like picking up on clues and asking questions to determine what’s wrong and how to fix it. There’s a surprising amount of people skills required to do the job.” I’m taken aback by his answer. I expected him to say something about being a lifetime computer geek or loving video games. But this level of thought is commendable for someone with a job I’m guessing doesn’t pay all that well. Then again, what do I know? “I’m impressed,” I tell him. “It seems like you really enjoy your work.” “I do. And I like the people I work with.” “How many people work at Hot Swap?” “We have more than six hundred employees at twenty-six locations around the Pacific Northwest.” “Wow. I had no idea. Do you work at more than one Hot Swap location?” He looks down at the pork rib in his hand, taking a slow bite and chewing it before he answers. “I float around a bit.” I get the sense he’s uncomfortable with this line of questioning, though I’m not sure why. Maybe he’s self-conscious about his job? About his assumption that my career probably pays more than his does? While soil scientists don’t exactly kill it financially, I do okay. I worked hard for my PhD, and my employer pays accordingly.
I decide to let the whole subject drop. There’s no point in discussing money or career choices with a guy I’m just seeing temporarily. Not even seeing, exactly. Not in the dating sense. We’re just sleeping together, I remind myself, in case I’d started to forget. I start to reach for another rib before realizing it’s the last one on the table. “Are you going to eat this?” He grins at me. “You have quite the voracious appetite, Miss Michaels.” His voice makes me shiver, or maybe it’s the suggestion in those words. I pick up the rib and bite into it, hoping I haven’t bitten off more than I can chew with Simon.
… My sisters stop by later that night. I’d asked them to come, but still. I’m never quite braced for how they overwhelm any room they march into with their startling efficiency and clouds of expensive perfume. “Cassie,” Missy says, squeezing my hand. I’m relieved to see she’s abandoned the double-cheek-kiss habit she picked up in Europe last month. “So good to see you.” “I brought the exercise ball you asked for,” Lisa says. “They were selling them in the gift shop at the country club, so I bought you one of your very own instead of lending you mine again.” “That’s so thoughtful,” I tell her, accepting the flowery gift bag with a little orange ribbon tied to the handle. “Yes, well, I was excited when you said you wanted to try Pilates,” Lisa says. “For real this time, instead of having kinky sex on it like you did before.” Both sisters giggle, and I feel a sharp stab of guilt. When they first showed me how to lie back on the oversized exercise ball for a series of ab exercises, I was intrigued. Then they dragged me to their prissy gym filled with immaculately-coiffed trophy wives and supermodel soccer moms, and all I could think about was fleeing the place as fast as possible. Or fucking someone on the ball. That’s where the fantasy started. But since I didn’t have anyone to partner with on that endeavor, I borrowed Lisa’s ball for a few halfhearted ab crunches at home. I popped it by accident when I left it sitting too close to my iron, then made up the sex story to avoid a sisterly lecture on proper ironing techniques. “Thank you,” I tell my sister as I set the gift bag aside and give Lisa a hug. “Can I get you something to drink?” “I don’t suppose you have any lavender lemonade?” Missy asks. “No.” I try not to grit my teeth. “No lavender lemonade. How about wine, beer, or water?” “Perrier?” Lisa asks hopefully. “No,” I tell her. “Water. Like from the tap. Portland has some of the best drinking water in the country. I can even add ice to it if you like.” My sisters exchange a look, and I can’t tell if it’s disdain for my drink selection or a silent observation that Cassie is being “that way” again. I’m never entirely sure what “that way” is, except that it’s not their way.
The story of my life. “We’re fine, thanks,” Missy says. “Actually, we just wanted to make sure you’re still up for our girls’ wine getaway in a few weeks. We know you have a lot of travel scheduled for fieldwork, so we were afraid you might bail.” “The girls’ getaway,” I repeat. “Right. Of course. I’m looking forward to it.” Or I forgot about it. There’s no way I’m admitting that, though. I guess I’ve been a little busy, what with all the plant-soil microbe research and kinky sex. “I’m so excited for it to be just the three of us,” Lisa says. “No parents, no friends, no men.” “And it’s our treat,” Missy says. “For your early birthday present.” “Wow,” I say, taken aback by their generosity. “That’s really sweet. I’m touched.” “Excellent!” Missy claps her hands together. “We can get pedicures together and maybe do a little shopping to get you some decent clothes. Something that doesn’t go with work boots.” Lisa beams and nods in agreement. “Maybe a pretty sleeveless dress. Now that you have the workout ball, maybe you’ll get toned enough that you’ll want to let your arms show.” I resist the urge to bristle, or to point out that some women have more pressing priorities than how their triceps look in a cocktail dress. The jab that maybe wasn’t even a jab leaves me edgy, and I find myself resorting to a familiar line of defense. Leaning back against my sofa table, I fold my arms over my chest. “Did I tell you about this new guy I’m sleeping with?” They give a scandalized gasp, which is exactly what I was aiming for. I may not be the sort of girly-girl my sisters want me to be, but I can damn sure show them I’m more than grubby work boots and dirty fingernails. “Another man?” Lisa asks. “Honestly, Cassie.” But she’s smiling when she says it. She steps a little closer, and her voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper that’s completely unnecessary considering we’re the only three people in my house. “Tell us all about him,” Lisa murmurs. “What’s he like?” “Tall, dark, and handsome,” I rattle off before realizing even if it’s a cliché, that’s Simon to a tee. “And hot. Really hot. Definitely into—experimentation.” I let that word hover there while my sisters titter and gasp and pretend to be horrified. Deep down, I wonder if they’re jealous. If they covet my freewheeling, vixen life, or if they’re as perplexed by it as I am by their world of garden parties and wine clubs. Maybe it’s a little of both. “Tell us everything,” Lisa says, skirting around the sofa and easing herself into the middle of it. “Now that I’m getting married, I’ll have to live vicariously through your exploits.” Missy laughs and settles onto the sofa beside her. “Our little wild child.” She flashes me a look that’s equal parts fondness and amusement. Like I’m an oddly-feathered exotic animal who wandered into the middle of one of their garden parties.
I pause for a moment, wondering how long I should keep up this charade. Then I remember it’s not a charade. For once in my life, in all these years of playing the wild sister, I actually have something real to dish. “Well,” I begin, flopping onto the loveseat and crossing my legs in my best imitation of a saucy minx. My sisters lean forward, eager to catch every juicy detail. “Let me tell you about last Friday.”
Chapter Nine SIMON So, here’s the thing. I haven’t exactly told Cassie yet that I’m loaded, and I’m pretty sure that makes me an ass. It’s been three weeks since we met, and she still thinks I’m just a computer repair guy with a knack for kinky sex on a fitness ball. She has no idea I own even a single Hot Swap, not to mention the whole damn chain of shops. I swear it started out innocently. I got to be just a normal guy, taking a regular girl for the ride of her life down the Fucket List of her dreams. For once there was no talk about my money. No wondering if that’s the only reason she’s spending time with me. I love how I feel around Cassie, how she looks at me like I invented sex. That’ll all come to a screeching halt when she finds out who I am. So yeah, I’ve decided to keep up the ruse. And she gets to pretend I’m some anonymous stranger, forgettable, but fun, at least for a few more weeks. It’s easier that way. We’re not in this long-term, so it’s fine. Right? But it does complicate things a little when it comes to fulfilling some of the things on Cassie’s Fucket List. “I’m not sure about this place,” Cassie whispers, glancing around the dimly-lit bar. “This doesn’t seem like a bar where I’m going to find a girl to kiss.” Her uncertainty is understandable. We’re sharing a table at Olive or Twist. A great spot to meet with investors or take a few high-performing Hot Swap team members out for a swanky night on the town, but it may not have been a wise choice for fulfilling item number eight on Cassie’s list. Soft jazz fills the air, and amber-tinted candles flicker on every horizontal surface. Everyone here is clad head-to-toe in black, and a guy at the bar just ordered a martini requiring more detailed instructions than my last business plan. It’s possible I’m not the best guy to choose a venue for girl-on-girl seduction. Cassie sips her Rose City Martini and looks nervous. “That woman over there seems nice.” The second I say the words, I realize this is not the attribute to highlight in a woman Cassie’s hoping to lock lips with this evening. Lucky for me, Cassie is too polite to point that out.
“She’s pretty.” Cassie takes another sip of her drink and studies the blonde at the opposite end of the bar. It’s true the other woman is pretty—high cheekbones and a fitted black dress that leaves her shoulders bare—but she’s got nothing on Cassie. While the blonde is cool and racehorse thin, Cassie is warm and lush beside me in a knee-length purple sweater dress that dips low in in front and exposes the tops of her breasts. I can’t stop staring at them, which probably isn’t helping our cause right now. “I don’t know about her.” Cassie glances away from the blonde. “She looks like she’s meeting someone.” Sure enough, the blonde glances at her watch. As if on cue, a dark-haired guy in a sport jacket comes strolling in and plants a kiss on her cheek before sliding onto the barstool beside her. “Okay, not her.” I glance around the bar, trying to find someone else who looks like a good match for Cassie’s plan. While I may have picked wrong on the venue, I can’t say I mind spending this extra time with Cassie. We’ve chosen a small table in the corner, opting to share the upholstered bench seat instead of sitting across from each other. In theory, it was to give us both a good view of the bar, but I had other reasons. Cassie’s bare thigh brushing mine under the table is one of them. “How do I even do this?” she whispers, and I try not to get distracted by the closeness of her mouth to my ear. “Like, do I just walk up and say, ‘wanna make out?’” “Actually, that’s not a bad plan. You could just explain that it’s a dare or a bet or something. I’m sure there’d be plenty of women who’d be game.” She shoots me a dubious look. “Show me how it’s done.” “What?” “Go pick up a woman and show me how it’s done.” I take a sip of my whiskey sour and pretend to assess the scene. The only woman here that I really want to kiss is sitting beside me. That’s not helpful. “It’s different for guys.” “How? I’d think it might be easier. You have the whole heteronormativity thing working in your favor.” She frowns. “The fact that I just used an eight-syllable word might be part of my problem.” I grin and give her knee a soft squeeze under the table. “Trust me, it’s not a problem. A beautiful woman who’s also smart? That’s really fucking hot.” She smiles. “Thank you.” “No, thank you.” “So, you’re not going to show me how to pick up a woman?” “I don’t think that’ll help you here.” “Why not?” I fold my hands around my glass and try to think of a way to explain it that doesn’t make me sound like a big chickenshit. “If a guy you don’t know comes up to you in a bar and asks you to make out with him, how are you going to respond?” She grins and takes a slow sip of her drink. “Depends on whether he just fixed my laptop.”
The flirty flash in her eyes makes me a lot less eager to nudge her away from the table and out into the arms of another person, even if the other person is female. I shift under the table, deliberately bumping her knee with mine. Her legs are bare, and I have to fight the urge to reach under the table again to squeeze her knee or stroke her thigh or maybe just crawl under there myself and put my face between her legs so I can— “Is it okay to admit I’m really nervous about this one?” I swing my gaze back to Cassie. The anxiousness in her expression makes my heart feel like a soggy puddle in the middle of my chest, and I wonder if there’s any way to put her at ease. Conversation seems to do it most of the time, so that’s what I try. “You never experimented in college?” I ask. “I know that’s a rite of passage for a lot of women—have a few beers at a party, kiss another girl on a dare.” Cassie shakes her head. “That wasn’t really my college experience. Studying soil science, most of my classmates were male.” I feel a pang of jealousy that’s so ridiculous I have to wash it down with another sip of whiskey. What gives me the right to be jealous of any guys Cassie may or may not have hooked up with in college? My asinine flare of envy goes unnoticed, since Cassie is still talking. “Besides, I wasn’t much of a party girl. I always worked too much.” “I can relate.” A slender brunette in a little black dress sashays in, clutching a tiny red handbag that matches her lipstick. Cassie fingers the rim of her glass as she watches the woman stride across the bar to join a group of expensively-attired ladies occupying the corner table. I watch as Cassie’s expression turns wistful, and it occurs to me she’s probably spent most of her life being an outsider in one way or another. I don’t mean she’s friendless and lonely or anything. Between her career path and the fact that she’s so different from her sisters, she’s spent an awful lot of time carving out a delicate balance between fitting in and finding her own way. I admire the hell out of her for that. But my admiration isn’t what she needs right now. She needs my help mustering up the courage to kiss another woman. “I think you’re right that this isn’t the best pickup spot,” I tell her. “How about a brew pub or a dive bar or something?” “A dive bar?” “Sure. You know, the whole Portland hipster scene. Everyone’s into those little hole-in-the-wall places with greasy food and cheap beer and a lot of single people looking to hook up.” She raises one eyebrow. “You make it sound so sexy.” I smile and sip my drink, making an effort to nudge her knee with mine again. “You mean desperation and fried food don’t turn you on?” “I’m afraid not.”
“I’ll cross those off my list of potential aphrodisiacs.” She grins. “I take it back. I could probably be seduced by a big plate of cheese fries.” “Duly noted.” God, I love this easy banter with her. I also love the fact that I can see the edge of a black lace bra down the front of her dress. Regardless of what happens tonight, I sincerely hope there’s a chance I’ll see more of it. I order myself to focus on Cassie’s girl-kissing mission and try to imagine a vibe more conducive to helping this plan along. I’ll admit I’ve never been much of a pickup artist. For some idiotic reason, women have always approached me. Not in high school, of course, when I was a pimply geek with big feet and smudged glasses. But later in life, when my skin cleared up and I started hitting the gym and discovering women are apparently into the whole Clark Kent vibe. That, and my bank account made me unexpectedly appealing to women. Which is the main reason I’m avoiding telling Cassie I’m loaded. Her choice to spend time with me has nothing to do with my money or career or anything tied to those assets. Is it wrong to want to hold on to that a little longer? “What about adding a game element to it?” I suggest. Cassie looks startled for a moment, and it occurs to me her mind drifted like mine did. What was she thinking about? “A game element,” she repeats. “How do you mean?” “I’m just remembering back to college parties. Seems like the girls who hooked up were always doing it on a dare. Usually a drinking game or some other silly party game where two girls ended up having to kiss for five seconds while a bunch of drunk frat boys looked on. Maybe you need a game.” She looks dubious. “You think I should bust out Chutes and Ladders as a form of foreplay?” I laugh and swirl the ice cubes in my drink. “How about Hungry Hungry Hippos?” “Connect Four?” “Ha! Bonus points for the orgy innuendo.” “Maybe I’ll add that to my next Fucket List.” I can’t decide if I like that idea or not. I know things are over with Cassie and me when we hit number ten. The thought makes me sad, but it’s what we agreed to. Of course, if she made a second list, that might mean another shot at— “How about Apples to Apples?” she suggests. “That’s a sexy name for a game. Bonus points for sounding like something that lends itself to a little girl-on-girl action.” I laugh and do my best Matt Damon impersonation. “How do you like them apples?” “Exactly.” “Did you know that’s not just a movie quote? I read up on it once after I saw Good Will Hunting and wondered about the origin of the phrase.” “I thought it came from From Dusk till Dawn?”
“It was in both films, but the phrase originated during World War II. A reference to bombs or grenades. Soldiers would use it to taunt the enemy.” She smiles at me over the rim of her glass, and I feel my gut clench tight. “The intelligence aphrodisiac thing works both ways,” she says. “For what it’s worth, I’m glad I picked a smart guy to be my frivolous sex toy.” “So am I,” I say, even as I feel a sharp, painful pinch at the edge of my heart. The ‘frivolous sex toy’ phrase stings more than it should, which is stupid. That’s exactly what we both agreed to here. What the fuck is wrong with me? And then I remember the phone call from Junie this morning. The disappointment in her voice when I turned down her last-minute invitation to pizza night at the group home. “So, you can’t come?” Her voice quivered a little on the last word, and I felt like someone stabbed a corkscrew through my heart. “I’m sorry, Junie. I made plans tonight.” “What sort of plans?” Oh, God. There was no way I could tell her about Cassie. No way I could let her get attached to another woman who won’t be around for long. “Plans,” I repeated, hoping that would suffice. “Plans with a girlfriend?” “No!” The word came out more adamant than I meant it to, but it was true, dammit. Cassie’s not my girlfriend. That’s what we both agreed. “I’m really glad you invited me,” I told my sister. “I wish I could come tonight, but what about brunch tomorrow?” “I’d like that!” The smile in my sister’s voice was unmistakable. “I’d like that a whole lot.” Even so, I felt like the world’s biggest asshole. I still feel like one now. But I remind myself that this is why I can’t do this for the long term. There’s a reason I gave up trying to have a relationship. Junie is my number one priority, and always will be. I need to tread carefully with Cassie. I also need to figure out how to help her do number eight. Pushing aside my gloomy thoughts, I study Cassie again. God, she’s beautiful. I watch as she surveys the bar, those green eyes taking in every detail of what’s happening around us. The candlelight makes her eyes glitter, and she’s wearing some sort of rosy lip gloss that tastes like passionfruit. I’m aching to kiss her again. She reaches up to tuck a strand of hair behind one ear, and I catch a faint hint of vanilla that makes me dizzy. “What about a video game bar?” I suggest. “There’s one called Ground Kontrol over on Northwest Couch. That would add the game element.” “You’re suggesting I challenge a girl to a game of Tetris and the winner has to make out with the loser?”
“You have a better idea?” She looks thoughtful for a moment. She doesn’t say anything right away, and I watch her take one last sip of her drink before setting it down. There’s a naughty glint in her eye now that sends a spear of lust straight to my crotch. As she shoves her glass aside, she turns and gives me a small smile. “I might have another idea,” she says. “But it would require leaving this place.” At this point, I’d cheerfully follow the woman off the end of a dock with my pockets full of rocks, but I play it cool. “I’m game for that. Where are we going?” She smiles a little bigger, and I notice a flicker of nervousness in her eyes. Cassie licks her lips, and it’s all I can do not to kiss her hard and deep right there in the bar. “I’ll show you.”
Chapter Ten CASSIE The second we walk into Casa Diablo, I know I’ve picked the right place to fulfill my girl-on-girl mission. The topless woman at the front door offering four-dollar motorboats is my first clue. “What’s a motorboat?” I whisper to Simon as he ushers me past a tattooed bouncer and into a dimly-lit room filled with dance music and more scantily-clad women than I’ve seen outside a gym locker room. Simon looks uncomfortable, which is pretty funny for a red-blooded man who’s suddenly found himself in a strip club. Make that a vegan strip club—the only one in the universe, according to a friend who told me about this place a few years ago. I never thought I’d actually come here, but The List is making me try a lot of things I wouldn’t normally do. One of the “things” I’ve done clears his throat beside me. “A motorboat is when you put your face between a woman’s breasts and, uh—sort of move your head back and forth making motorboat noises.” “Oh.” I glance back at the door. “And that’s four dollars?” “Evidently.” I consider whether ponying up four bucks would fulfill item number eight on the list. ‘I kissed a girl, and apparently, I really liked it.’ No. I may not remember every specific detail of the story I told my sisters, but I don’t think a fourdollar motorboat would do it. Besides, that seems a little weird. Maybe not much weirder than where we’re standing now. A low stage in the center of the room has three separate dance areas with a tall silver pole at the center of each. At the moment, all three poles are occupied by dancers in varying stages of undress, gyrating with impressive athleticism. I stand there staring for a moment, taking it all in, a little shocked by the spectacle. There are women with small breasts and large breasts and everything in between. There are tattooed women, women with short hair, long hair—no hair, though it’s possible I’m assessing their Brazilian bikini waxes. “Come on,” Simon whispers in my ear. “Let’s grab a table so we can get out of the way.” It occurs to me Simon is a lot more uncomfortable than I am. I watch him tug at his tie, and I wonder if we should have gone home to change instead of coming straight from the swanky bar. He leads me toward a wooden table at the edge of the room. The knowledge that I’m the one who came up with this plan
makes me feel sophisticated and bold. I’m an empowered, sexually-liberated woman who can take charge of her desires and visit a strip club and ogle other women and—dear God, what is that dancer doing with that man’s eggroll? “Here’s a spot.” Simon pulls me toward a dark little table in the middle of the room. A wooden bench seat runs the full length of the space, and I take a seat beside him. On one side of us is a burly guy wearing a T-shirt advertising a construction company. To my right is a trio of women giggling into neon-colored drinks. As a topless server in hot pants leans down to take Simon’s order, one of the women next to me catches my eye and smiles. “First time?” I nod, a little dismayed that my bold and empowered woman vibe isn’t coming through. “Yeah,” I acknowledge. “First time here or any strip club.” “Really?” She peers around me to Simon, then smiles. She’s wearing a low-cut white top and a tiara that suggests she’s either part of a bachelorette party or a misguided member of the royal family. The redhead next to her wears a crown, so I’m guessing Tiara Girl is a bridesmaid. “Ah, I get it,” Tiara Girl says. “Lots of guys love seeing their wives and girlfriends sit up front and get groped by the dancers.” “Wh-what?” I stammer. “No—I don’t—I mean—groped? But no, this was my idea.” Which I’m beginning to think might be ill-conceived. As though sensing I need a little encouragement, Simon rests a hand on my knee under the table and leans close to my ear. “You okay?” I nod and meet his gaze. The fizz of nervous energy inside me simmers down, replaced by an unexpected calm. I can do this. “I’m good,” I tell him. “Here you go.” He pushes a small stack of two-dollar bills in front of me and offers an encouraging smile. “The waitress just traded me for a couple twenties. She said you’ll need them if you want to sit at the edge of the stage.” I’m not entirely sure I do want to sit at the edge of the stage. I stare at the spot closest to us, surprised to see more women watching than men. A female customer in a red dress pushes a pile of cash to the edge and smiles up at the dancer, who responds by doing a sexy little shimmy. Another spectator—who looks disturbingly like a woman from my sisters’ book club—takes a sip of her martini and applauds with such enthusiasm she sloshes her drink. Beside me, Simon shifts on the bench. “I ordered you a lemon drop.” He’s big and solid beside me, and I feel a rush of gratitude that he’s here. That I’m not tackling number eight alone. “Thank you.” On my right, Tiara Girl pushes her plate of nachos in front of me and smiles. “Have some,” she says. “They’re really good.” “They’re—vegan?” She laughs. “Yeah. Everything here is. The cheese, the sour cream, even the whipped topping on the Spanish coffee. You won’t see any of the dancers wearing leather or fur or anything, either.”
I wonder if I should feel guilty about my own leather boots, then decide it’s the least of my worries right now. “So how does this work, exactly?” I whisper to Tiara Girl. “I need a little help.” She smiles again, and I wonder if she knows I need more than just tips for strip-club etiquette. That I’m here for a reason, and the reason involves locking lips with a woman I don’t know. I swallow hard and try to look natural. “If you sit up front, you put down a minimum of two dollars at the start of the song,” Tiara Girl explains. “The dancer will probably feel you up a little—they know that’s what all the guys want to see— so if you’re not cool with that, just stay right here.” I can’t decide if I’m cool with that or not, so I pick up a corn chip and take a bite. Beside me, Simon leans in close. “If at any point you’re uncomfortable and want to leave, just say the word.” I look up to see concern in his soft brown eyes. “Are you uncomfortable?” “Only because I’m worried you might be.” “I’m good.” I realize the moment I say this that it’s true, and that much of it is due to the strong, stupidly sexy man sitting next to me. He shoves his glasses up his nose, and I feel an unexpected flare of attraction. “I can do this,” I say. “I want to do this.” This is also true. Not just for my sisters, but for me. When I made up the ‘I kissed a girl’ fantasy for my sisters, I was playing to the cliché. What wild girl in her twenties hasn’t toyed with the idea of a little same-sex flirtation? Well, me. Because I’m not a wild girl. Not yet, anyway. But I kinda want to be. “I’m going up there.” I get to my feet before I have a chance to think about it. On shaky legs, I make my way to the edge of the stage. The song has just ended, and one dancer is scooping up armfuls of cash while another cleans the pole with spray disinfectant. I don’t know why, but this makes me giggle. My sisters are forever whipping out their antibacterial hand sanitizer, passing it around a table like their version of a crack pipe. The thought of strip club employees being this hygiene-conscious tickles my funny bone in a way that solidifies my desire to sit here. To see what happens when I do. A slender dancer with long, black hair and impossibly high heels takes her spot at the pole. As I stare up at her, she catches my eye and smiles. “Hi there,” she says. “Uh, hi,” I say, or at least I try to say it. My voice seems stuck. But I do manage a smile as I wonder if it’s okay to keep staring at her. Probably, since she’s on stage and all. I can’t help admiring the pale blue lingerie set she’s wearing. It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask where she got it, but I decide that might break strip club etiquette. Someone sits down beside me, and I look over to see Tiara Girl. Relief washes through me that it’s not some creepy dude. It’s not Simon, either, which I appreciate. He must know I need to do this part alone. He’s not pushing or leering. Just hanging back and offering silent support.
“I forgot to introduce myself,” says Tiara Girl. “I’m Kristin.” “Cassie.” “Nice to meet you, Cassie. I’m here for my sister’s bachelorette party.” Something about that personal detail gives me comfort. I glance back at the sister, who looks tipsy and cheerful and a lot like Kristin. I wonder about their relationship and whether it’s anything like mine with Missy and Lisa. “Thanks for sitting with me,” I whisper, turning back to Kristin. “Thanks for being ballsy enough to sit here. I’ve wanted an excuse to try this all night.” She reaches down and gives my hand a squeeze. “Don’t be nervous. It’s fun.” I feel a shiver of excitement as the song starts. It’s some techno number I recognize from the radio, and I push my two-dollar bill across the edge of the stage. The dancer does a few twirls around the pole, gripping it with her thighs to do an upside-down spiral to the bottom. I’m as awestruck by her core strength as I am by her perky little breasts, which are on full display as she wriggles out of the sheer blue bra and tosses it aside. The music throbs, and I tear my eyes off the dancer to see what’s happening around us. A waitress hustles past with a sloshing tray of drinks. Off to the right, a meaty bouncer grabs a tipsy-looking guy by the arm and says something that makes the guy frown. The air smells like perfume and French fries, and I’m a little dizzy from all the flashing lights. “Here we go,” murmurs Kristin. “Your guy is gonna love this.” I look back at the stage and get smacked with a burst of excitement. I don’t know about my guy, but I feel a twitch of desire watching the dancer crawl across the floor on all fours, headed straight for me. She meets my eyes and smiles, and I hear myself give a soft whimper. Nervousness or excitement? I’m not sure which. “Hello,” the dancer purrs. “May I?” I don’t know what she’s asking, but I feel myself nodding. She must know from my deer-in-theheadlights look that I’m a newbie, because her smile turns almost kindly as she reaches for me. “Oh, very nice,” she murmurs as she leans in close. I feel her lips on my ear and her hair tickling my neck as her hands trail slowly over my collarbones. She seems to hesitate for a moment, probably waiting for me to pull back. To say no, this isn’t what I want. But it is. I gasp as she slips her hands all the way down the front of my dress and into the cups of my bra. Her fingers are gentle as she glides them over my nipples and purrs into my ear again. “You smell good.” “Um,” I manage with a thread of desire twirling through the clanging nerves in my center. My heart is pounding in my ears, or maybe that’s the music. This is all so different. So new to me. The dancer’s lashes tickle my earlobe as her thumbs graze my nipples again. My whole body hums with pleasure, and I glance left to see Simon watching with undisguised appreciation. The dancer moves back, slipping her hands out of my dress more hastily than she put them there. She
smiles at me again, a saucy expression that seems to say, “how was that?” I nod and smile back as I shove my whole pile of two-dollar bills onto the stage. I’m more turned on than I expected to be, and I glance back at Simon again, wondering if he’s noticed. The disco ball flickers in the reflection of his glasses, but beyond that, his eyes are molten. His gaze locks with mine, and we stare at each other across the room. Beside me, the dancer has moved on to Kristin. I hear Kristin giggle when the other woman slides into her lap, but I barely notice. Spectators on all sides of us are cheering, but I’m still locked in Simon’s gaze. We’re twenty feet apart, but I can feel him like he’s next to me. Inside me. I lick my lips and touch a hand to my cleavage, which feels like it’s on fire. He smiles, and mouths three words that send a searing bolt of lust straight through my core. I want you. My mouth goes dry. I want him, too, more than I’ve ever wanted anyone in my life. Kristin grabs my hand, and I break the force field of Simon’s gaze to turn back to her. “Wasn’t that fun?” I smile and nod like an idiot. “Yeah. I guess I can cross that off The List.” Wait. Can I? There was technically no kiss. I’m trying to decide whether to give myself a mulligan on this one when Kristin presses for more. “You have a list?” “Yeah.” I give her a sheepish smile and shrug. “It’s this stupid list I made for my sisters. Long story. I was supposed to kiss a girl, but I think getting groped by a dancer is close enough.” “Oh, sweetie.” She grins and puts her palms on my shoulders. Her eyes are pretty and blue, and she’s close enough for me to see a smattering of freckles on her nose. “See that guy over there? The one by the bar wearing the red T-shirt.” She gestures with the tip of one manicured finger, and I glance toward the bar. Standing off to the side is a tall guy with a handsomely-stubbled jaw and dark eyes that are fixed on Kristin. He’s smiling a little, but there’s a heat in his expression that reminds me of the look I just saw from Simon. Simon, whose gaze I can feel on the side of my face. I turn back to Kristin. “Is he your boyfriend?” “Husband. It’ll be five years next month. Want to know the best anniversary present I could give him?” “What?” I’m surprised by the breathlessness in my voice, and I think I might know what she’s going to say. “To see his wife—a tired mother of two—kiss another woman.” There’s nothing in Kristin’s pretty features that says “tired-looking,” and my heart pounds with the knowledge that I want to kiss her. Not the same way I want to kiss Simon, but also not just for The List. I want it for me. Before I have time to think about it, I lean in close and brush my lips against hers. She’s soft—softer than any man I’ve kissed—and I feel myself melting into those lips. Suddenly, I can tell we’re both into this. Her tongue touches mine, timidly at first. I respond like it’s the most natural thing
in the world, tilting my head to deepen the kiss. She gives a soft little sigh, and I tunnel my fingers into her hair, letting those silky curls slide between them as her tongue brushes mine again. It’s a sweet kiss, but still passionate. Not a kiss to make me swear off men, but one I’ll remember for a good long time. I draw back first and slowly let go of her. I smile into those blue eyes, and Kristin smiles back. “You’re an excellent kisser,” I tell her. She laughs and tosses a look back at her husband. He’s walking our direction, and I suspect Kristin is about to get very, very lucky. “I’ll tell him you said so.” I don’t even realize the song has ended until several people stand up around me. I get to my feet, surprised to realize my knees aren’t shaking anymore. I scan the room for Simon, hoping he saw the kiss. Hoping he looks at me with even a fraction of the desire I see on Kristin’s husband’s face as he hustles her toward the door. “Cassie.” I turn at the sound of Simon’s voice. He’s standing behind me with my coat in his hand and a smoldering look in his eyes. I don’t know what makes me glance down at the front of his pants, but I smile at the evidence that he’s as turned on as I am. My pulse hammers in my ears, and I find myself having a very tough time swallowing. “Want to get out of here?” His voice is low and suggestive, and I wonder if we’ll even make it home. We took an Uber here, neither of us wanting to drive if we were going to be drinking. I’m regretting that decision. I lick my lips and nod. “Let’s go.” We don’t even make it to the front door. We spot a dark little alcove near the restrooms, and he pulls me into it. I watch as Simon grabs the handle of a door labeled DO NOT ENTER and I’m too dizzy with lust to question whether this is a good idea. Maybe he tipped an employee for access to the broom closet, or maybe we’re doing something that’s going to get us arrested. At this point, I don’t care. I might welcome the handcuffs. I’m breathless as Simon pulls the door closed behind us. There’s no light at all, but I think we’re in a storage room of some sort. I smell pine cleaner and soap and perfume that isn’t mine. It’s warm in here, but not too warm, and I think it might be the heat from our bodies. I take a step back and feel a wall behind me. As I lean against it, I pull Simon toward me, kissing him a lot harder than I did Kristin. He gives a soft growl and kisses me back, his hands everywhere at once. He’s rougher than normal, but I don’t mind. I crave it. Gripping the hem of my dress with both hands, he hikes it up over my ass. There’s a possessiveness in his kiss that stirs something primal inside me. As he breaks the kiss, I hear his breath coming hard in the darkness. “That was the hottest fucking thing I’ve ever seen in my life,” he growls. I stifle a giggle, not wanting to get caught. I feel myself grinning like an idiot as he tugs my panties down my thighs. I kick them aside in the darkness, not caring that they’re my favorite pair and I may never see
them again. My mouth waters in Pavlovian response when I hear a zipper being dragged down, then the crinkle of a condom wrapper. Thank God, I think to myself, grateful he feels the same urgency I do. I don’t want foreplay. I don’t want conversation. I want Simon inside me as fast as humanly possible. “Hurry,” I whisper, reaching out to help guide the condom in place. He grabs my hips again, and I give a sharp little intake of breath. I’m not sure how he plans to do this, but I’m eager for anything that gets him inside me. At this point he could ask me to drop to all fours and make animal noises and I’d do the best damn impression of a sheep he’s ever heard. But that’s not what Simon wants. “Wrap your legs around me,” he says. He lifts me just enough so I can obey the command, then raises me up like I weigh nothing at all. Pushing me against the wall, he uses it for leverage so he can sink deep inside me in one slick stroke. I gasp, then bite down on his shoulder to muffle the sound. “God, Cassie,” he murmurs against my neck. “You’re so fucking wet.” I am, and I know he probably credits the dancer or Kristin or the novelty of being in a place like this. But my body’s response is all about Simon right now. Clenching my thighs tight around his waist, I grind against him. The angle is pure magic, offering delicious, slick friction against my clit as he drives in deep enough to make me scream. But I don’t scream. Music pulses beyond the door, and a trill of laughter trails someone into the ladies’ room just outside. I smell bleach and sweat and desire, and I can feel myself getting closer with every thrust. “Simon,” I whisper. That’s the only word that makes it past my lips as the first wave hits me. The orgasm is like nothing I’ve felt before, swift and fierce and so powerful I nearly black out. Or maybe that’s the effect of having sex in total darkness. Pinpricks of light burst against my eyelids, and I bite down on Simon’s shoulder again to keep myself from crying out. I feel him shudder between my legs, and he stifles his own groan against my neck. Then he goes still. I wait for self-consciousness to set in. Shame for the public groping or the girl-on-girl kiss or the fact that I’m here in a broom closet with my dress hiked around my waist and my not-so-lightweight self being held up by a guy I’ve known just a few weeks. But instead of feeling embarrassed, I’m giddy. Releasing my grip on Simon, I lower myself to the floor and tug my dress down. I’m grinning in the darkness, and I can’t seem to stop. “That was amazing,” I whisper. There’s a low rumble, and I’m pretty sure he’s laughing. He finds my hand and squeezes it. “It was,” he whispers back. “Sex in a bar and girl-on-girl action,” I whisper. “That’s two on the list!” “More than halfway done.” I’m still glowing, but I feel my smile falter just a little. Maybe it’s the ebb of adrenaline. Maybe it’s the
knowledge that we have to figure out a way to escape this closet unnoticed. But I don’t think that’s it. As Simon leans in to kiss me, I push back the knowledge that this whole crazy experiment will soon come to an end. I kiss him back hard, breathing in the spicy scent of his soap, grateful it’s too dark for him to see my face.
Chapter Eleven SIMON Over the next week, Cassie and I text each other sporadically. She’s out of touch for two days doing fieldwork at a remote logging site near the coast. I keep my phone switched off the afternoon I take Junie to the zoo for her birthday. We see pandas and gorillas, and I expertly dodge my sister’s questions about women. “Is Britney coming with us when we go to dinner?” she asks through a mouthful of cotton candy. “No, she isn’t.” I try not to grimace at the reminder of a girlfriend I haven’t seen for years. “Paula?” Junie scrunches her face in concentration, determined to get it right. For people with Down syndrome, retaining and relearning information can be a challenge. It’s always been a struggle for Junie. “Paula is your girlfriend,” she says with a note of uncertainty. “I haven’t had a girlfriend for a long time,” I assure her. “Want to go see the penguins now?” My sister frowns, and I can tell she’s trying hard to remember our previous conversations. To conjure a verbal or visual cue that might trigger her memory. “But I thought maybe you would get married,” she says. “I liked her.” It’s unclear which “her” she means, but the guilty pang in my chest is the same either way. “Nope!” I announce in the most upbeat voice I can muster. “I’m not getting married. I don’t even have a girlfriend.” I can almost pretend I don’t picture Cassie’s face when I say it. That I don’t wish things could be different between us. Or that I’m not desperate to see her by the time the weekend rolls around. It’s Saturday when I find myself in the driver’s seat of a pickup truck that smells pleasantly like potting soil and Cheetos. I keep stealing glimpses at Cassie beside me, her hair curling around her ears as she studies the map spread across her thighs. I’ll admit the first time I read item number five on The List, my nuts shriveled like a pair of prunes wedged between the ice trays. I’m all for creative sex, but sex in the snow? Not my idea of a good time. But four hours of round-trip driving alone with Cassie is my idea of a good time. I’m behind the wheel of her battered work truck, which was her idea. The four-wheel drive should prove handy where we’re going, which is apparently the middle of nowhere. Since she has a better idea than I do where we’re headed, she’s in charge of map reading and navigation.
That works for me. Makes it much easier than explaining how I managed to afford a $220,000 Mercedes on a computer store clerk’s salary, and oh by the way, did I forget to mention I own the whole damn company? I’m not lying, exactly. I’m just not volunteering the whole truth. Maybe if I keep telling myself that I won’t feel so bad about it. “Okay, turn left here,” Cassie says. “Where?” “That little mile marker right there. Oh! You just missed it.” “That was a road?” I glance in the rearview mirror. “It looked more like a bike path for cyclists who like crashing into trees.” “It’s a Forest Service road,” she says as I make a U-turn in the middle of the highway. “It might be a little rustic.” Rustic is an understatement, but it’s also beautiful and untamed. A little like Cassie, who’s sitting beside me in well-worn jeans with tall snow boots and a green wool sweater that matches her eyes. She looks comfortable and soft, and I nearly drive off the road reaching over to stroke her knee. She grins at me and tucks a strand of hair behind one ear. “Thanks again for doing this, Simon.” “For driving you out into the middle of the woods to have sex in the snow where my balls will get hypothermia and require amputation? Don’t mention it.” Laughing, she folds the map over and trails a finger over the section that represents our destination. We’re climbing now, the narrow road-that’s-not-quite-a-road gaining elevation fast where the trees begin to thin. There are patches of snow on the ground, and I’m grateful Cassie has four-wheel drive and snow tires on this rig. She even packed a survival kit in the toolbox in back. “I know this is one of the weird ones on the list,” she says. “I almost thought about not doing it. But there’s something about the outdoorsy element that made me want to go through with it.” “Also, not your balls in jeopardy.” I smile to let her know I’m not really that worried about it. Truth be told, I’m kind of excited about experiencing this form of outdoor recreation. “You’ve always loved the outdoors?” “Always.” I see her smile from the corner of my eye, and though there’s a hint of sheepishness to it, there’s an unmistakable gleam of excitement. “It’s the thing I love best about my job. I know soil science seems like kind of a dorky profession, but it’s something I’m passionate about.” “When did you decide to be a soil scientist?” “Probably when I was a kid. I’m not sure I knew what a soil scientist was back then, but I used to play in the mud puddles in my backyard, gathering ‘samples’ and doing ‘experiments’ on them. God, my poor mother spent a fortune on Spray ’n Wash to get all the dirt out of my clothes.” “I’ll bet you were adorable.” “Adorable,” she repeats as though the word is unfamiliar to her. “I don’t know about that. I didn’t have much in common with my sisters. We had a tough time playing together sometimes.”
“How do you mean?” “They wanted to play with Barbies, and I wanted to bury Barbie in the dirt to see if she’d decompose.” I laugh and take a sharp left turn as Cassie points me onto another dirt road. The patches of snow are getting thicker, and I’m almost disappointed to know we’ll stop driving soon. “So, what does a soil scientist do, exactly?” “All kinds of things,” she says. “I evaluate soil and interpret the data for agricultural purposes or for environmental quality. Farmland and forests and mining operations and urban land—all of it has soil, and all of it tells a story.” “I never thought of it like that. That’s really cool.” I’m not sure if I mean the dirt trivia itself, or Cassie’s enthusiasm. Either way, it’s true. I’m loving how brainy she is. How fucking smart and passionate and excited about a career that’s so utterly unique. “Sounds like you ended up in the right profession, then.” “For sure,” she says. “I love my job.” “I love mine, too.” I see her head swivel to look at me, and I worry I’ve opened Pandora’s box. “How long have you been working at Hot Swap?” “Eight years,” I tell her, which is true. I started the company from scratch when I was twenty-two years old. “I didn’t realize it’s been around that long.” “Yep. It’s one of the fastest-growing companies in the Pacific Northwest. Oregon Business magazine named us the top employer in the state last year, and Forbes is running a feature on us in the next issue.” Shit, that sounded way too braggy, at least for a guy who mans the front desk. I open my mouth to try and cover my mistake, but Cassie points a finger out the window. “Here!” She gestures to a section of dirt below a copse of frost-fringed evergreens. “This is a good spot. You can pull over in that little clearing.” I ease the truck onto a flat patch of dirt, marveling that we’re the only ones around. True, it’s late winter in the middle of the woods at five thousand feet above sea level, but I’m amazed no one else has discovered this place. The air smells fresh and clean, and the sky overhead is stunningly blue. It’s like we’re two million miles from the hustle of Portland traffic, even though it’s less than two hundred. Cassie pulls on a puffy gray jacket and jumps out of the truck, her boots landing in a patch of snow that’s a couple inches deep. I zip up my own coat and walk around the truck to join her. She’s tugging on a pair of red wool gloves and staring at the trees like a kid with a new puppy. “Wow,” Cassie says. “That’s the biggest Pinus contorta I’ve ever seen.” “Wait till I take it out of my pants.” That quip earns me a swat on the shoulder and an eye roll that makes me want to annoy her again just to watch those beautiful green eyes in motion.
“Very funny,” she says. “Pinus contorta is a lodgepole pine. That guy right there.” She points to a twisted evergreen with densely clustered needles and pinecones the size of eggs. It’s a beautiful tree, and I’m not the kind of guy who normally admires trees. There’s something about being here with Cassie that makes me marvel at everything. From trees to rocks to the empty Starbucks cup on the ground—it’s all somehow picturesque with Cassie standing next to me. Junie would love it here. The words almost tumble out of my mouth before I can think them through. I clamp my teeth together, not willing to go there. No sense introducing Cassie to the idea of my kid sister. Ensuring the two never meet —that Junie never has a chance to get attached to another woman who won’t be in the picture long—is crucial to my sister’s happiness. “So, did you bring a blanket?” I ask. The question seems to startle Cassie “A blanket?” “I’m assuming you weren’t planning to lie down naked on the ground and have me pound you into a snowbank.” “I—uh—I guess I didn’t think of that.” It’s surprising, considering Cassie usually thinks of everything, but I know she’s been distracted this week. Work has been crazy, and her sisters have been hounding her about plans for a bachelorette party. I smile to let her know I’m not upset as I slip an arm around her shoulders. “I guess we could call that the Post Hole Digger,” I tell her. “I hold you up by the ankles while you’re facedown in the snow, and we cross number one off the list.” She laughs and looks around the clearing. White-capped mountains shimmer in the distance, and a bird swoops overhead and screeches something at us. A beam of sunlight bathes Cassie’s hair in golden light, while patches of snow sprawl out in the shady spots like glittery pillows of ice. Very cold, glittery pillows. We’re supposed to lie down on one of those? I have a better idea. I bend down and scoop Cassie into my arms. She yelps but twines her fingers behind my neck, nuzzling against my chest like she belongs there. “Where are we going?” “I’m giving you a chance to perform an up-close-and-personal inspection of the Pinus contorta,” I tell her. She giggles as I carry her over to the lodgepole pine she admired. There’s a patch of snow beside it that looks like the wind piled it up there. It’s smooth and pristine, maybe ten feet long and five feet wide with a pillow-like surface unmarred by footprints. I set her down in it and watch her sink past her ankles in tall boots. I let go to adjust my glasses, but Cassie keeps her fingers twined together behind my neck. She pulls me down for a kiss and I go willingly, tunneling my hands under her winter parka. She takes a step back so her back’s against the tree trunk. Breaking the kiss, she smiles up at me. “We’re in the snow,” she says, “so you should probably be in me.”
“That can be arranged.” We fumble a little with our clothes. She drops one red glove in the snow as she yanks at my belt buckle. I burrow my hands under her sweater, touching her through a thermal undershirt. I’m hungry for bare flesh, but my fingertips are icy, so I don’t dare graze her naked belly. Our boots crunch in the snow as we kiss and touch and expose the least amount of skin possible while accessing all the vital parts. Cassie draws back, her breath coming fast in visible little puffs that seem to hover in the frozen air. “I want you.” The air around us is arctic, but there’s fire in Cassie’s eyes. I want her, too. More than I did the first time, or the second, or the third. How is that possible? “Let me.” I tug at the button on her jeans. I haven’t thought it through completely, how this will all work. I just know I need to be inside her. That I’m desperate to feel her again. That urgency gives me pause. I’ve never wanted anyone the way I want Cassie Michaels. Not just her body, but her mind. Her personality. Her whole self. That scares the ever-loving hell out of me. But I can’t think of that right now with her hand sliding into my jeans. Her fingers wrap around my shaft, and I give a soft groan of pleasure when she strokes the full length of me. I bury my face in her neck, breathing her in, devouring every spot of flesh not covered by wool or nylon or down. “Simon?” “Mmmhmm?” “I didn’t want to mention this before, because it’s not like we know each other all that well—” Oh, God, oh, God, where is this going… “—but the thing is, I’m on the pill. And, um—well, I went in for my annual exam only a month ago and got a clean bill of health. I know we’ve been using condoms, but if you’ve been checked recently and know about your status, maybe we could—” I draw back, trying to process her words as she trails off and waits for me to fill in the blanks. Or fill in something else. My brain is fuzzy from all the touching we’ve been doing, and it takes a moment for her meaning to sink in. When it finally hits me, I feel my cock surge against her palm. I swallow hard and look into her eyes. “I had my yearly physical three weeks ago,” I tell her slowly. “I always have them do an STD panel. I could pull up the results on my phone if you—” “It’s okay, I trust you.” I feel a sharp pinch of guilt in my abdomen, and it has nothing to do with STDs. I’m not lying about that, but I haven’t exactly been forthcoming about who I am. The companies, the money, the huge house, the private jet. I open my mouth to tell her, but she cuts me off with a kiss. Her fingers are still wrapped around my dick, and my brain goes to mush again. I kiss her back, hard and wet and deep as Cassie keeps stroking me. Her words are still echoing in my
head while I breathe in the honeyed scent of her hair. Dizzy with need, I kiss her back hard and deep. I’ve never felt such a rush of anticipation. Are we really going to do this? Am I really going to be inside Cassie with nothing between us? “Yes,” she whispers as she leans up to nibble my earlobe, though I haven’t even asked the question out loud. It’s like she’s reading my mind, which is fucking terrifying. But terror isn’t the dominant emotion right now. Lust is. Desire. As I slide my fingers into Cassie’s jeans and between her legs, I’m hit with a powerful surge of it. She’s slick and soft and hot, and I want her so badly that I ache all over. “Okay,” she says, and presses a hand to my chest. I’m not sure what she has in mind at first. She gives me a mischievous smile, then turns around and wriggles her jeans down over her hips. They slide to midthigh, baring her lush, beautiful ass to the chilly air. I place a palm on each cheek, wanting to touch her almost as much as I want to be inside her. Cassie leans forward against the tree and braces herself on her forearms. Then she shoots me a look over her shoulder. A look that says, ‘fuck me,’ even though she hasn’t uttered a word. I don’t need a verbal invitation. I shove my jeans down in front, letting my cock spring free into the chilly forest air. I breathe in and out, savoring the pine-laced breeze and this breathless moment of anticipation. These frozen seconds before I slide inside her with nothing at all between us. “Please, Simon. I want you so much.” Those words nearly send me to my knees. But that’s not where I need to be right now. I position the head of my cock at her opening and slowly ease inside. She’s still looking at me over her shoulder, and I watch her eyes go wide. A soft moan fills the air, and I’m not certain if it’s her or me. As I ease inside, I wonder if this feels different to her, too. Part of me assumed this was just a concession to my pleasure, but watching the look on her face as I move condom-free inside her makes me realize it’s different for both of us. “You feel so fucking good,” I groan as I slide all the way in. She’s tight around me, hot and wet. She grinds her hips back into me, taking me in as deep as she can. “So do you.” I pull back and then slip in again, feeling the pressure building already. Too soon. I want to savor this. The first time being bare inside her with the walls of her sex so snug and slick. Cassie closes her eyes, and I know she’s doing the same thing. “Harder,” she whispers. She lets go of the tree with one hand, and I watch her fingers move to the front of her body. But this time, I want to be the one stroking her. I want to be the one who makes her come. “Let me,” I whisper against her neck. I take one hand off her hips and slip the first two fingers in my mouth. It’s partly to warm them, partly to make sure they’re slick enough to glide just right. The second I touch her clit, she bucks against me.
“Oh God, Simon! Don’t stop.” I wouldn’t dream of it. I’m pounding her harder now, stroking her tight little bud with soft, butterfly strokes of my fingertips. The second she tenses around me, I know she’s close. It’s sooner than I wanted, but I doubt I could hold out much longer anyway. Not with Cassie clenched this snug and hot around me. “That’s it, baby,” I growl. “I want to feel you come. Just like this.” The familiar cry starts in her throat, so different from the muffled one at the club. Her sex squeezes around me, and that’s all it takes. All I need to tip me over the edge. We come together in a hot, wet burst of light and frozen air and the muffled crunch of snow under our boots. Or is that the crunch of tires? It dawns on me that the buzz in my head isn’t my brain exploding, but the hum of an approaching engine. Cassie hears it the same moment I do, and her eyes go wide. We spring apart like teenagers caught groping in a movie theater, fumbling fast with buttons and zippers and layers. I’ve just gotten my belt buckled when a mint-green truck pulls up behind Cassie’s. The US Forest Service logo is emblazoned on a door that swings wide open to reveal a middle-aged guy in a khaki uniform and a green parka. “Afternoon.” He tips his hat to both of us, but his eyes are on Cassie. “Everything okay, here, ma’am?” Cassie nods, looking dazed and flushed. It dawns on me the guy is trying to determine if he’s stumbled upon a sexual assault in progress. I feel a wave of gratitude, even as I hope like hell the guy gets back in his truck and takes off. No such luck. He takes a step closer, studying us both a little too intently for my comfort. “We’ve had a rash of poaching in this area recently,” he said. “Deer hunters. I don’t suppose either of you has a gun?” Is it my imagination, or did his eyes just drop to the front of my jeans? I’m pretty sure I got my pants zipped, but my hard-on hasn’t fully subsided. I shift a little so Cassie is in front of me and clear my throat. “No, sir,” I tell him. “No firearms of any kind.” “Good. That’s good.” He looks around like he’s trying to figure out why two people would be up here in the middle of nowhere in February with their hair disheveled and the scent of sex in the air. I have no idea if what we’ve just done is illegal, but I’d rather not find out. “We have a permit,” Cassie says. My brain is still filled with sex, and I turn to look at Cassie with surprise. There’s a permit for outdoor sex? “For native plant collection,” Cassie continues. “The permit’s in the truck.” “You’re collecting plants in the middle of winter?” The ranger gives her a skeptical look. “In the snow?” “It’s the perfect time.” Her voice is surprisingly breezy, or maybe it’s just a contrast to my own racing pulse. “Everything’s gone dormant this time of year, so it’s much easier to transplant.”
The Forest Service guy frowns, probably wondering why we don’t have any tools, but Cassie continues with her story. “We’re scouting for a few good specimens before we start digging,” she says. “Ceanothus velutinus, Arctostaphylos patula—that’s snowbrush and greenleaf manzanita.” “Uh-huh.” The guy nods slowly, and I can’t tell if he’s buying it. I pat the tree trunk next to us and try to look casual. “We were just admiring the Pinus—uh—” “Pinus contorta,” Cassie supplies, shooting me a look that suggests I should probably shut up. “Obviously, this one’s a little big.” “Quite large,” says the Forest Service guy, folding his arms over his chest. “Right,” Cassie says. “We’re not digging it up or anything. Just admiring the specimen.” “Admiring the specimen.” He looks at us for a few more beats, and I could swear he’s smiling a little under that moustache. “So, that’s what the kids call it these days?” I clear my throat. “Yes, sir.” With a sharp little laugh, he turns on his heel and stalks back to his truck. “Just be careful out here,” he says. “Wouldn’t want you getting eaten by wild animals.” I watch him go, stifling the urge to laugh. “Too late, officer,” I murmur as the truck door slams and Cassie dissolves into giggles.
Chapter Twelve CASSIE Several days pass, and believe it or not, I don’t spend every waking hour thinking about the stupid-hot guy who’s been having sex with me. After a long week of evaluating soil nutrient levels at a vineyard, I find myself at home in my PJs on Thursday night with a bowl of Cheetos in my lap and my computer on the coffee table in front of me. I’m sipping a glass of pinot noir from the aforementioned vineyard while compiling a report on sludge management and nonhazardous process wastes. Sometimes I’m so glamorous I can’t stand myself. I’ve just shoved a handful of Cheetos in my mouth when the phone rings. I glance down to see Simon’s name on the readout, and my stupid heart does a kicky little tap dance in my chest. Reminding myself that I am a strong, independent woman who doesn’t need a man to open her jars or hit her G-spot, I finish chewing my Cheetos and hit the button to accept the call. “Hey, Simon.” “Hey, sexy.” I catch myself grinning, and I’m not sure if it’s because of the compliment or because I’m actually pretty un-sexy right now. My cupcake-patterned leggings have a hole in one knee, and I’m wearing a sweatshirt that says Soil scientists know all the dirt. I hit save on my computer file and lean back against the couch with the phone cradled against my ear. “How did your work thingy go last night?” I’m doing my best to sound casual, but the truth is that I’m super curious about Simon’s job. I get the sense he doesn’t like talking about it much, which only makes me more curious. Also, I’ll admit it—I’m wondering if he took a date. He didn’t say much about the event, except that he had to get dressed up. My sisters and I had plans last night, so I couldn’t have gone with him even if he had invited me, which he didn’t. Because we’re not dating. But is it wrong to hope he didn’t take someone else? “The event was good,” he says in response to the question I’ve forgotten asking. “Actually, really good. Get this—I won a two-night getaway to Cascara Springs. That’s that fancy resort in Central Oregon.” “You’re kidding me.” I drop the Cheeto I’d been holding and try not to feel jealous. “My sisters have been dying to go there since it opened. They made me look at all the pictures on the website. Lisa’s been
trying to get her fiancé to take her.” “Yeah, I hear it’s amazing. So is the package I won. Here, I’ll read you the certificate.” I hear a rustling of paper, and I try to picture Simon at home. I’ve never seen his house, but I imagine it’s tidy and sparse with a lot of computer stuff lying around. Or maybe it’s more of a bachelor pad with piles of laundry in the corner and a roommate or two. He begins to read, and I order myself to pay attention. “This certificate entitles the bearer and one guest to round-trip limousine transportation from Portland, Oregon to Cascara Springs Res—” “A limousine? You’re kidding me.” “That’s just the transportation. Once we get there, it says we get lunch for two, an all-inclusive spa day including double mud bath and ninety-minute massage. There’s a two-night stay in a deluxe cabin, plus a few other things in this basket—looks like a bottle of wine and some slippers and—” “Holy shit.” I’m not sure if I’m dumbfounded by the magnitude of this prize package or by the fact that he said “we.” Does he mean us? Simon and me, together? I don’t want to presume anything. I wipe Cheeto dust on the knee of my leggings and pick up my wineglass off the end table. “That’s great, Simon. Congratulations. You won this at a work event?” “It was a charity function I had to go to for work. Normally, I dread those things, but it really paid off this time.” “I’ll say.” I’m not sure what a charity thing has to do with his job as a computer repair guy. I open my mouth to ask, but he’s quicker than I am. “So, what are you doing this weekend?” “This weekend?” I should probably invent something so I don’t sound desperate and too available, but the only thing I can come up with is testing the pH levels of my houseplants’ soil. That’s lamer than being desperate and available. “I don’t have plans,” I say. “Why?” “Come with me. Be my date.” “Are you serious?” My heart is thudding in my ears, but I tell myself it’s just the excitement of a luxury getaway. It has nothing to do with Simon himself. With the feelings that may or may not be growing bigger than I expected. “Totally serious,” he says. “This seems like fate, doesn’t it? Number ten on The List—” “‘Naughty spa day at super-snooty place for rich assholes,’” I recite, a little embarrassed now by my own word choice. “We can be assholes together,” he says. “There’s no one else I’d rather be an asshole with,” I tell him, which is true. I bite my lip, wondering what the odds are that he’d win a luxury getaway at a place that so perfectly fits what I described on the list. Maybe he’s right. Maybe it is fate. “Okay,” I tell him. “I’d love to go.”
“Awesome. I’ll email you a pic of the certificate. That has all the details about the package.” “Perfect,” I say, imagining myself as the sort of woman who’d hop in a limousine bound for a luxury spa resort at the foot of the Cascade Mountains. “Thanks for inviting me.” “Thanks for agreeing to come.” I hang up before I can make some asinine joke about the number of times I plan to come, since that’s the purpose of the trip. It is the purpose, right? We’re still just having sex with each other and not dating. There’s no reason to read anything into this. I stare at the phone for a second, then pick it up again and hit the speed-dial number for Missy. If I remember right, my sisters have a standing date for hot yoga on Thursdays, followed by make-your-ownsmoothie nights at Lisa’s place. “Hey, Cass!” Missy’s voice is cheerful, and I can hear a blender running in the background. “We were just talking about you.” “Oh?” “Yeah. We were trying to remember that crazy story you told us a couple years ago about hooking up with that guy in the wine cellar at that vineyard over in Dundee. What was his name again? Ace or Hulk or something like that?” “I—uh—something like that.” Crap. I’d forgotten that story. Does this mean I have to add something else to The List? On second thought, maybe that’s not the worst thing in the world. Maybe if I just keep adding items, I’ll never have to figure out how to cut things off with Simon. “Listen, I’m heading out of town for the weekend,” I say. “Can we reschedule our date to talk about flowers for Lisa’s wedding?” “Hang on, let me put you on speaker.” There’s a rustling on the other end of the line, followed by a twangy echo. I hear Missy whispering something to Lisa, and I swear I hear the words “flaking out on us.” “Cassie?” It’s Lisa’s voice this time. “What’s this about rescheduling our flower-viewing party?” “Right. Something came up. I promise I’ll be there when you actually meet with the florist, but since we were just going to look at catalogs anyway, I thought maybe we could—” “What came up? This isn’t a work thing, is it?” “No, it’s not a work thing.” I clear my throat. “I’ve been invited to Cascara Springs Resort.” “What?!” My sisters shriek in unison, and I find myself smiling. They’re jealous, I can tell. Is it wrong to feel a tiny bit smug? “You trollop!” Missy says with the utmost fondness. “Let me guess—you’re going there with some guy?” “Yeah,” I admit. “He asked me to come with him on this fancy spa getaway.” I don’t mention that he won it. I don’t mention that Simon and I aren’t really serious. The thing I highlight is that he chose me.
I’m annoyed that this is what excites me most. “You’re totally off the hook,” Lisa says. “That’s a good excuse.” “Talk about a once-in-a-lifetime trip,” Missy says. “I’ve been dying to go there.” “You’ll have to tell us all about it,” Lisa adds. “Oh, I will.” I wonder if that’s true. For some reason, I’ve found myself holding back on sharing details of my hookups with Simon. How’s that for irony? I blab all the gory details when the stories are figments of my imagination, but clam up when they finally come true. I’m not sure what to make of that. “So. Thanks for understanding,” I say. “I’ve gotta go pack.” “I’ll bring you some things tomorrow,” Lisa says. “God knows your wardrobe isn’t up to visiting a place like Cascara Springs.” “Oh!” Missy adds. “You can borrow my Burberry scarf. And my red Jimmy Choo stilettos.” “She wouldn’t be able to walk in those.” As my sisters bicker about dressing me, I settle back against the couch. Shoving a fresh handful of Cheetos in my mouth, I try not to think too much about Simon undressing me. Or how little time we have left for him to do that.
Chapter Thirteen SIMON For the record, I wasn’t lying about winning the Cascara Springs Resort gift basket. Everything I told Cassie is included—the limo ride, the mud bath, the two nights of deluxe lodging. And I was lucky enough to be the winning bidder on the whole package. Okay, luck may not be the right word. The auction was for charity, and I may have placed a bid high enough to not only ensure I’d get the package, but that the charity will be comfortably funded for the next five or six years. What? It was for a good cause, and Cassie gets to cross item number ten off her list. It’s a win-win for everyone. So why do I feel guilty? “This feels amazing,” Cassie says, and I push my guilt aside to focus on feeling amazing right along with her. It’s not hard to do. I’m sitting in a massive brown tub filled with a thick, warm soup of muddy water. Cassie’s on the opposite end with her arms resting on the edges and a blissed-out look on her face. Her hair is piled on top of her head, and those perfect breasts are bobbing on the surface like rosy apples. Her face is covered with a special volcanic mud mask, and I swear to God I’ve never seen anyone this beautiful in all my life. I take a deep breath and order myself to stop ogling her. “I was reading up on some of the different types of mud they use here,” Cassie says with her eyes still closed. “There’s a black mud they use for treating arthritis and rheumatism, and a white mud that’s shown to have healing properties for burns.” “So, what about this stuff?” I scoop a gooey handful off the bottom of the tub and let it trickle through my fingers. It really does feel awesome. Silky would never be an adjective I’d use to describe mud, but that’s kind of what this is like. “Exfoliation,” she says. “And relaxation. That’s the main thing. God, this feels wonderful.” “It really does.” I’m not just talking about the mud. I’m talking about being here with Cassie in a double mud bath at a luxury spa, which ranks up there with the top experiences of my life. “I love that you’re so passionate about mud,” I tell her. “And I love that you won this package. Seriously, thank you for inviting me.”
“My pleasure. I’m glad you could come.” Her eyes are still closed, and she gives a blissed-out sigh while swishing her fingers through the warm, earthy liquid. “A girl could get used to this kind of luxury.” Something cold pools in the middle of my chest as those words ping around inside my eardrums. A girl could get used to this kind of luxury. Those are the same words Kaitlyn uttered when I took her to Paris to celebrate six months of dating. This was after I treated her to a shopping spree along la rue de Rennes, but before the ten-course dinner with wine pairings. It was my own damn fault, I told myself later. I’m the one who set the expectation that I’d shower her with money. That life with me would be filled with that kind of extravagance. Could I really blame her for not wanting to take on the other parts of my life? The less-glamorous ones that revolve around family and work and constant advocacy for my sister. It was hardly Kaitlyn’s fault for making assumptions. And she was far from the only girlfriend who decided to cut and run when she saw the big picture. I take a deep breath and will myself back to the present. I’m here with Cassie, savoring this once-in-alifetime experience. I know it can’t be more than this, but I can enjoy it while it lasts. “You sure you don’t want to have sex in here?” She opens her eyes and grins. “Not unless you want dirt clods in some uncomfortable places.” “I’ll pass.” “Besides, I was pretty specific in the story I told my sisters,” she says. “I jotted some notes about the details I remember.” “Care to fill me in?” “Well, I remember telling them about the double mud bath with a hot guy.” “Check,” I announce, waiting to see if she’ll give me shit about the “hot guy” part. Cassie’s ability to flip me crap is one of the things I adore about her. But she’s focused on her story. “After the mud bath, we shower off together.” “I think that can be arranged.” I glance over my shoulder at the large, double-headed tile shower the attendant pointed out to us when we arrived. “We could definitely have sex in there.” “We could, but that’s not the story I told my sisters last year.” “Right.” I try to recall the way she worded it on The List. “Something about the ladies’ dressing room?” “It’s actually called the Ladies’ Relaxation Suite here, which is perfect. Is that the snootiest thing you’ve ever heard?” “Pretty snooty,” I agree, trying to decide if that’s a good thing or a bad thing. “Anyway, I think the Ladies’ Relaxation Suite will fit the bill. I looked up pictures on the website, and it’s exactly what I was imagining.” Cassie’s commitment to the plan makes me smile. Her attention to detail, the way she’s devoted to making her own fibs a reality. I love that I get to be part of that.
“Okay, so no sex yet,” I say. “I should at least get to touch you.” She laughs and pushes away from the edge of the tub, turning like an otter to slide into the space between my legs. She leans back against my chest, and my hands find her breasts in the silky liquid. “Oooh,” she says as I stroke my palms over her nipples. “That’s nice.” “Very exfoliating.” I scoop a handful of soft silt off the bottom of the tub and massage it into her breasts, cupping those perfect, slippery orbs in my hands. I’ve never thought of mud being a turn-on, but it feels fucking incredible when I’m stroking it over her skin. I grab another handful of silt, reveling in the smoothness of it. Of her. Running my palms over her belly, I massage it into her flesh and feel her squirm against me. “That tickles,” she murmurs. “Do you want me to stop?” “No!” Well okay, then. I keep touching her, gathering handful after handful of mud. I glide it over her thighs, her calves, the delicate curves of her upper arms. By the time I’ve rubbed mud into nearly every part of her body, she’s practically purring in my lap. I’m guessing she’s aware that I’m sporting some major wood, and I hope it makes her want me as much as I want her right now. “We should get out and shower,” she says. “I’ve never heard a woman so eager to shower.” “It’s not the shower I’m eager for.” I know the feeling. We scramble over the edge of the tub, leaving muddy footprints across the tile. There’s a reason everything in this room is the color of chocolate syrup. She makes it to the shower first and turns on both sets of taps. I stand back for a second and watch the water sluice over her body, showing beautiful pink trails of skin through the mud. She rinses her face and turns to grin at me. “You coming?” “I’m hoping to in about five minutes.” She laughs and pulls me into the hot spray with her. I get mud all over her freshly washed body, which gives us the excuse to scrub each other all over. Hands are everywhere—arms, legs, breasts, bellies. We can’t stop touching each other, and I’m not sure if we’re trying to get clean or dirty or if there’s something else at play here. It’s the ‘something else’ that gives me pause. What are we doing here? Are we still sleeping together for the sport of it, or is this starting to feel like more? I think I know the answer to that, and it scares me witless. But I can’t think of that right now with her hand gripping my cock in the soapy water and her body pressed wet and lush against mine. “Come on,” she says. “I can’t wait any longer.”
She lets go of my cock and grabs my hand, which isn’t nearly as satisfying. But it’s a means to an end I’m anticipating very much, so we twist off the taps and towel ourselves off fast enough to set a world record. Once we’re both wrapped in thick white robes with the Cascara Springs logo on the front, Cassie grabs my hand again. “This way.” Her voice is urgent as she pulls me toward a door marked LADIES’ RELAXATION SUITE. She presses a palm against it, then turns to face me. “Maybe you should wait here a second. I can make sure the coast is clear.” “Good idea.” She pushes through the door, damp hair trailing down her back, bare legs making me wish they were wrapped around me. I watch her disappear through the door, hating that I miss her even now. Get it together, I will myself. It’s just sex. You’ve had plenty of sex before. But not like this. Never like this. Cassie pushes back through the door again, a big smile on her face. “Come on,” she says. “We’ve got the place to ourselves. Ready to cross off number ten?” I nod and let Cassie pull me through the door. My whole body is ready, with every nerve snapped to attention. But my brain. My brain can’t stop running the numbers. No matter how you add it up, we’re almost to the end of the list. Which means my time with Cassie is almost up. That bothers me a lot more than it should.
Chapter Fourteen CASSIE When I invented my story of the tryst in the snooty rich person’s spa, I spared no detail for my sisters. I described the feel of the luxurious Turkish towel against the back of my thighs, the scent of the juniper shampoo I’d used in my hair, the coolness of the marble against my palms as I gripped the edge of the counter while a hot, nameless guy stood between my bare thighs. And while some of the details are different—the counter is granite and the guy definitely has a name—I never imagined it would feel this good. “That’s nice,” I murmur as Simon kisses his way down the center of my body. We’re locked in the largest dressing room of the Ladies’ Relaxation Suite, and Simon wasted no time parting my robe and boosting me onto the counter beside a polished copper sink. This place is amazing, but not nearly as amazing as the feel of Simon sliding into me with nothing at all between us. I groan and close my eyes, marveling at the feel of him gliding deep inside me with aching slowness. “Cassie,” he murmurs against my throat. He’s gentle about it, but my body is more than ready to take all of him. I’ve been desperate for it for the last hour, and I clench my thighs around him to draw him deeper. The feeling of condom-free sex is still new, and so exquisite. There’s something about the way our bodies glide together, the delicate friction of it. I love the way I can feel each ridge and groove. Every last inch of him. It’s a lot of inches. “God, you feel good.” I dig my heels into his back, pulling him into me as I press my shoulder blades against the mirror for leverage. He stops kissing my collarbones and lifts his face to kiss my lips instead. There’s a heat in those brown eyes that sends pulses of desire straight through my core. “You feel amazing.” I grin into his eyes, then groan when he angles up just a fraction of an inch. I swear the man has a G-spot magnet in the tip of his cock. “Right there?” he murmurs. “Mmmhmmm. Oh, yes! Don’t stop.” He’s breathing heavy now against my neck, and the sound of my own heartbeat is hammering in my head. I’m not sure how we hear the thud of a door through all that noise, but we both freeze in unison. Footsteps echo through the Ladies’ Relaxation Suite, and we both glance at the dressing room door. It’s
bolted tight, but there’s eighteen inches of space separating the bottom of the door from the floor. If anyone glances under it, we’re busted. Maybe the person will leave quickly. I put a finger to my lips, signaling Simon to be quiet. It’s probably housekeeping or another spa guest or— “Cassondra Michaels?” I bite my lip. I can easily pretend I’m in the restroom. Maybe if I just— Achooo! I gasp, startled, as Simon sneezes again. Achooo! Incidentally, having a man sneeze while his cock is inside me was not on The List. Maybe it should have been. God bless the man, he didn’t slip out. I yank my robe up over my bare shoulder, though that particular spot of naked flesh should be the least of my concerns. I shoot another glance at the locked door and wonder if that sneeze sounded too manly. Achooo! I fake my own sneeze, pitching the sound a little deeper to match Simon’s while giving it a decidedly female tone. This is serious business, the fake sneezing. “Bless you,” comes a voice on the other side of the door. “Miss Michaels?” “Yes?” “I’m Henrietta, your massage therapist. I’m just getting everything ready for your appointment, and I had a couple questions about your preferences.” “My preferences?” I swallow hard and glance down. Simon is still nestled inside me, our bodies joined at the edge of the countertop. This is officially the weirdest conversation I’ve ever had. I look up to see Simon grinning at me, a conspiratorial look in his eye. He inches back just a little, then presses into me again. “Your preferences,” Henrietta repeats as I stifle a gasp. “It says here you requested a Swedish massage. You’ve had one before?” “Um, yes. Yes of course. Hundreds of times.” I’m actually not sure if I have, but that seems like the answer that will have Henrietta gone the quickest. Right now, with my legs spread and Simon deep inside me, I’m not up for a detailed explanation of the differences between Swedish and deep-tissue massage. I watch Simon glance down at the door lock again. I keep expecting him to pull out, but he doesn’t. To be honest, I don’t want him to. He feels so good, and if we can just get Henrietta out of here— I take a few deep breaths, hoping that’s the end of my conversation with Henrietta. Hoping we can get back to the business at hand. But Henrietta has other ideas. “Are there particular areas where you’re feeling tight right now?”
Simon grins at me. Those brown eyes flash with mischief. Slowly, oh-so-deliciously, he eases back. Then he slides in again, never once breaking eye contact. It feels exquisite. It feels— “Oh my God,” I whisper. He draws back again, then slides in deeper. My body clenches around him as he leans close to whisper against the side of my neck. “I can tell her where you’re feeling tight,” he murmurs. “So tight. So hot. So wet. So—” “My shoulders!” I shout a little too loudly. Simon shakes with laughter as he turns to plant a kiss on one of the shoulders in question, shoving aside the fabric of my fancy Turkish spa robe. “Wonderful,” Henrietta replies, and I swear to God her voice is closer than it was a few seconds ago. Is she standing right outside our stall? “And how do you like your effleurage?” she calls out. “Um, my effleurage?” I have no idea if that’s a body part or a beverage. At this point I’m considering shouting adjectives that would cover me either way. Tender? Warm? Uh— “I’m so sorry,” Henrietta calls. “Effleurage are the long, sweeping strokes we use in Swedish massage. I typically alternate between firm and light pressure, using palms or fingertips, but some clients have very specific preferences.” As she speaks, Simon slips his own palm between our bodies. He skims his fingertips across my clit, using my own wetness to tease the sensitive bud. I gasp and press against him, my body acting without permission from my brain. “Fingertips!” My reply comes out more like a groan as the pads of Simon’s fingers continue to torment me. “Uh, light at first, but maybe just a tiny bit faster.” “I can do that,” Simon whispers. Then he does. On the other side of the door, Henrietta is still talking. “That’s excellent feedback,” she calls. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate a client who knows what she wants.” There’s a shuffling outside the room, and I picture Henrietta taking notes. Simon continues his magic, gliding his fingers over my clit as he slowly begins to fuck me again. He finds his rhythm, working his hips in tandem with the stroking of his fingers. I let my head fall back against the mirror, so drunk with pleasure that I’m not sure I’d care right now if a whole team of masseuses stood and watched. But there’s just Henrietta. As Simon drives inside me again, she clears her throat. “How deep do you like it?” I don’t answer right away, partly because Simon just hit my G-spot, and it’s all I can do to keep from screaming with pleasure as I rake my nails down his back. But claw marks on his shoulder blades would make things more awkward for his massage, so I somehow muster a reply. “Deep!” I choke out. “Really, really deep.” “Perfect!” Henrietta calls. “With some clients, I’ll even use an elbow to achieve maximum
penetration.” Simon grins and lifts his arm, grazing my right nipple with his elbow. It’s an impressively dexterous maneuver, but not nearly as impressive as what he’s doing between my legs. “Whatever it takes!” I call to Henrietta while Simon quickens his pace. There’s a shuffling of footsteps outside the door, and I hold my breath. Maybe this is it. My prayers have been answered. Henrietta has moved on. But no, it’s not over yet. “May I ask about needing?” “Needing?” Right now, I’m needing Simon to stroke me just a few more times, because I can feel myself getting closer. little bubbles of light are bursting on the periphery of my vision, and his thumb is gliding over my clit like— “I use a lot of thumbs and knuckles in my petrissage, but if you prefer a gentler kind of kneading—” Oh, kneading. Good God, I’m going to lose it. I gasp and shove the knuckles of my left hand into my mouth, biting down to keep myself from crying out. Simon gives a sharp intake of breath, and I can tell he’s just a few beats behind me. We come together like that, Simon thrusting hard and deep and me arching against him and Henrietta prattling on about friction and vibration and rhythmic tapping and God knows what else. At last, Simon stops moving. I stop coming. And Henrietta stops talking. Did she leave? “Miss Michaels?” No such luck. “Yes?” My voice sounds dreamy and far away, and I close my eyes as Simon leans down to plant a kiss on my temple. “Just one more question,” Henrietta says. “I couldn’t help noticing you have a fair amount of hair on your legs.” I glance down. Sure enough, Simon’s bare legs are visible beneath the hem of his robe, and beneath the eighteen inches of space at the bottom of the stall door. Wonderful. “This isn’t a problem, of course,” Henrietta prattles on. “Certainly, I perform massage on all manner of body parts with hair or without hair. I just wanted to see how you would prefer me to—” “I’ll shave.” There’s a beat of silence outside, followed by Henrietta’s voice again. “Ma’am?” “No worries, I’ll just shave my legs. How about you give me just a few minutes to jump in the shower and get ready for the appointment?” “Oh. Yes, well. If you like.” “I like,” I say, stifling my laughter as Simon slides out of me and brushes a kiss over my shoulder. “I like very much.”
Chapter Fifteen SIMON The rest of our getaway is amazing. Candlelit dinners. Midnight strolls under the stars. Mind-blowing sex on linen sheets so soft they feel like daffodil petals. It’s like something out of a fucking fairy tale. Which is the reason I’m trying to tamp down the romance now that we’re back. We’re at Cassie’s house a week later eating greasy pizza straight from the box. We’re almost to the end of the list, and saying good-bye is going to be hard enough. De-romanticizing things might make it easier. I watch Cassie take a bite of pepperoni pizza, reminding myself that this is just a game. She’s just a woman. Nothing magical. Nothing I should consider risking Junie’s happiness to pursue like some kind of selfish— “I know I should change clothes first, but I’m starving!” Cassie grabs another piece of pizza out of the box on her coffee table and shoves half of it in her mouth at once. Holding a napkin under her mouth, she closes her eyes in bliss. I’m glad. It gives me a chance to study her. To commit every detail to memory. She wears tall leather boots and a pair of black skinny jeans that hug every delicious curve. Her sweater is a soft pink cashmere that she explained was a gift from the sisters when they all went shopping today. “We need to freshen up your wardrobe,” Cassie mimicked when she told me about it over the phone, her voice high in an imitation of Lisa. I don’t know that I’d like her sisters much, but I have to admit I like their taste in clothes. Pink is a great color on Cassie, and the sweater looks soft and touchable and— “You’re staring.” Cassie finishes chewing her pizza and swallows, then dabs at her mouth with a paper napkin. “You’re beautiful.” She grins. “I’ll bet you say that to all the girls with a mouthful of pepperoni.” “It is kind of a turn-on.” I’m sure she thinks I’m kidding, but I’m not. I love seeing her like this. I love being cozied up beside her on the couch with a fire in the fireplace and a pizza in front of us. I could get used to this. No, goddammit. See? This is what I’m talking about. How can I say good-bye if I can’t stop ogling her
like a love-struck dumbass? I pick up my own slice of pizza and take a bite. Cassie sets down her slice and boots up her laptop, then grabs the pizza again and takes another huge bite. I pull the computer closer and open a browser window. “Okay, then. Our mission, should we choose to accept it, is to determine whether there is, in fact, a sex position called the Post Hole Digger.” Cassie giggles. “And if there’s not, to make up our own.” “It’s a tough job, but someone’s gotta do it.” Cassie polishes off her last bite of pizza and wipes her hands on a napkin. She turns the laptop toward her and places her fingers on the keyboard. I can see her sisters must’ve talked her into a manicure today, and I feel a twinge of sadness. It looks nice and all, but I’ve grown fond of Cassie’s natural fingernails. No sharp claws or red lacquer. Just Cassie, perfect the way she is. “Thanks again for fixing this,” she says as Google flickers to life on the screen. “It’s run much faster since you worked your magic.” “My pleasure,” I say. “I only regret your loss of the letter X.” “Didn’t I tell you? It suddenly started working the other day. It was the craziest thing.” Maybe not that crazy. Wanting to help her out—but knowing her frugality would never allow her to buy a new computer—I rebuilt the machine a few days ago when Cassie went shopping for bridesmaid dresses with her sisters. If I can’t shower her with expensive gifts, I can at least do that. I say none of this as I watch Cassie type the words, “Post hole digger sex position” into the Google images search bar. The screen flickers and row upon row of flesh-filled photos appears. “Yikes.” She stares at the screen for a second, then hits the back button. “I can’t unsee that.” I nod and pick up another slice of pizza. “I’m sure there’s a perfectly reasonable explanation for what that man was doing to the tractor.” “Gross,” she says. “I must’ve missed that one. I was too busy trying not to look at the one with all the mayonnaise.” “I don’t think that was mayonnaise.” Cassie makes a face and taps at the keyboard again. “Maybe I should switch to a text search.” “Good idea.” She toggles to the Google search bar, but the screen flickers a low-battery warning. Before she can say anything else, the screen fades to black. “Damn,” she mutters. “I meant to plug it in earlier, but I left the cord at my office.” “It’s okay, I have my iPad.” I reach for the ratty-looking backpack that’s held all my important gear since my college years. I always meant to trade it in for a fancy briefcase, but that hasn’t happened. Probably never will. My mom bought me this backpack my freshman year at Stanford, and I’m kind of attached to it. I pull the iPad out and set it on the coffee table while Cassie studies the backpack.
“I was wondering what you had in there,” Cassie says. “You thought it might be an arsenal of sex toys?” “One could hope.” I grin and flip open the case on my iPad, then hit the power button. The screen flickers to life, and I click the Google app before handing it to Cassie. “Here. Knock yourself out. You mind if I grab something to drink?” “Please do. Sorry I didn’t offer.” “No worries,” I call as I stand up and head toward the kitchen. “You got the pizza.” “There’s a pinot noir open on the counter,” she calls. “There should be some beer in the fridge, or you can grab Coke if you feel like it.” “Can I get you something?” I call back. “A glass of the wine would be great. Thanks, Simon!” “No problem.” As I locate the glasses and pour a little wine in each one, it occurs to me how cozy we’ve become. In just a few short weeks we’ve gone from strangers to fuck buddies to—hell, we’re still just fuck buddies. But we’re fuck buddies who finish each other’s sentences. Fuck buddies who make each other laugh and make each other come our brains out on a regular basis. But still just fuck buddies. That’s all we can be, I know. But it doesn’t stop me from wishing for more. For loving the intimacy that’s formed between us and racking my brain to come up with some way to protect Junie’s heart and my own from the inevitable disappointment I know would result if I tried to turn this into something more. “Um, Simon?” “Yeah?” Something in her voice sounds funny, and I pick up the glasses with a spark of alarm flaring in my chest. “I think I hit a button on accident. I’m in a different window, and the screen is showing something else. Another window you had open or something.” I sprint into the living room so fast wine sloshes over the rim of one glass. Cassie looks up, startled. Then she glances down at the screen again. She isn’t smiling. “What is this?” My heart zaps frozen in my chest. God, what is it? My new interview with Forbes magazine? My profile on the Hot Swap website? In an instant, everything flashes before my eyes. She knows who I am. The money, the status, everything. All the things that have made every woman before her morph into a different person. I swallow hard, braced for it. She looks up again, and I can’t read her expression. “You like cheesy ‘80s flicks?” Her face breaks into a grin, and she swipes a stray strand of hair behind her ear.
I swallow hard. “What?” I walk around the sofa as Cassie sets the iPad on the table and turns it around to reveal my movie library in all its embarrassing glory. There they are, with their familiar, campy screenshots and promotional images. Sixteen Candles. Say Anything. St. Elmo’s Fire. All my favorite films, laid out for Cassie to see. I set down the wineglasses and feel myself starting to grin. “Guilty as charged,” I admit as relief floods through my limbs. Cassie grins back and cocks her head to the side. “Well, aren’t you full of surprises?” I laugh, so happy to learn my cover isn’t blown that I start blurting out the whole story. “It started with Pretty in Pink when I was a teenager,” I confess. “A girlfriend made me watch it, and even though I’m sure I was supposed to roll my eyes and act all annoyed by it, I loved every minute of it. Still do.” “Pretty in Pink?” Her grin widens as she picks up her wineglass and takes a sip. “I love that era of film. Molly Ringwald, Anthony Michael Hall—the whole Brat Pack. By the time I saw The Breakfast Club, I was hooked.” She laughs as she picks up a second piece of pizza. “Would you believe I have most of that movie memorized?” “No way!” She nods and makes a big show of crossing her heart with a fingertip. “Yep. My sisters and I watched it over and over again one summer until we could quote all the lines. Ally Sheedy’s character was my favorite.” “The weird girl?” “Yeah. Were you more of a Judd Nelson or an Emilio Estevez? The jock or the delinquent?” “Neither,” I tell her truthfully. “I was Anthony Michael Hall all the way.” “The brain?” I nod and take my own healthy slug of wine. I watch Cassie’s gaze drift back to the iPad. I can tell she’s thinking of picking it up again and continuing our quest. It’s the reason we’re here, after all. To figure out the best ways to cross off all the items on The List, and to execute the plan with efficiency and a healthy dose of passion. To check things off one by one and then part company with our hearts unscathed. But part of me wants to draw this out. To put off items number one and nine and whatever the hell else is left. Are there really only two things? My heart is racing again, and I know it has nothing to do with the iPad scare a few minutes ago. I don’t want this to be over, but it has to end, and I hate that. I hate it. When she glances up again, I can tell she’s a little nervous. “So, did you have a lot of girlfriends in high school?” “Not really. More in college. Quite a few in my early twenties, but not as many these days.” “Can I ask you something personal?” My gut balls up again. I want to scream “hell, no,” but I know that’s not the right answer to give the
woman I’m sleeping with. I unclench my jaw and manage a tight reply. “Sure.” She bites the corner of her lip. “Have you ever had a threesome?” On the big list of questions I didn’t want her to ask, this hardly ranks at all. Still, I hesitate. “You really want to know?” “Yes.” She picks up another slice of pizza and bites into it, then licks a crumb off the edge of her lip. That gorgeous mouth gets me every time, and I forget for a moment what we’re talking about. Threesomes. Right. “Two women at once,” I say. “Yes. I’ve done it. Once.” I wait to see how she reacts to that. Some women ask questions like this, but don’t really want the answer. I sense Cassie might be different. I hope Cassie is different. She certainly is in most ways that matter. “I don’t know why, but that kind of turns me on.” She grins at me. “I like picturing you with other women. Is that weird?” “Nope. I think it’s actually called troilism.” She blinks. “There’s a word for it?” “Yep.” I grab another piece of pizza, deliberately grazing Cassie’s fingers as I do. I can’t seem to stop touching her, even when it really shouldn’t be a turn-on. “When a guy gets off imagining his partner with someone else, it’s called cuckold fantasy,” I tell her. “When a woman does it, it’s sometimes called cuckqueaning, but I think troilism is the more common term.” “Jeez,” Cassie says. “What are you, some kind of sex dictionary?” I laugh. “You had no idea what you were getting when you chose me as your frivolous sex toy.” She grins, and I wonder if she remembers calling me that back at Olive or Twist. It seems like years ago. “You’ve been a most excellent frivolous sex toy.” She smiles and leans back against the sofa, her knee bumping mine softly. “Okay, so tell me about your threesome.” I can tell this is turning her on, and I’m fascinated. I might have read about troilism fantasies in Playboy, but I’ve never dated a girl who had them. You’re not dating, I remind myself. It’s only sex. That’s what you both wanted. I finish chewing a bite of pizza and pick up my wineglass. “Well, I’d been dating this girl pretty casually for a couple months,” I tell her. “I guess I thought of her as my girlfriend, but she wasn’t that serious about me. She made it clear she was seeing other people, one of whom happened to be a woman.” “How very enlightened of her,” Cassie says. “Did that bother you?” “The fact that she was bi?” “Yes.” “Hell, no.” I clear my throat, wondering if I’m supposed to be playing it cool. Then again, Cassie’s seen my nuts shrink up in a snowy forest. We’re beyond the pretense of cool. “I guess a lot of guys get turned on thinking about two women together.” “That’s why you got so hot and bothered at Casa Diablo the other night?”
I laugh. “One of many reasons.” I wait to see if she’s going to ask about the other reasons, but she doesn’t, so I continue my story. “Anyway, I got invited to a party one night, and it turned out to be at the home of the other woman. The one my not-girlfriend was dating.” “I’m already getting lost.” I grin. “Want me to make you some cue cards?” “I think I’m good.” Cassie picks up her wineglass and takes a small sip. “So anyway, it got later and later at the party,” I continue. “Before I knew it, it was only the three of us alone together. My not-girlfriend and her sorta-girlfriend in the sorta-girlfriend’s apartment.” “You think they planned it?” “Maybe. Probably. I guess I never considered that.” “Women can be sneaky.” It’s on the tip of my tongue to point out that Cassie doesn’t strike me that way at all. But I decide to continue with my story. “So, the three of you are alone together…” Cassie prompts, and my dick twitches as I realize how eager she is to hear this story. “Right,” I say. “I don’t remember who started the touching, but one thing led to another. Clothes started coming off on the way to the bedroom. Bras and shoes and shirts tossed all the way up the stairs. I let the women take the lead. I guess I didn’t want anyone to feel left out or jealous or anything.” “And did they? Get jealous, I mean?” I take a sip of my wine, considering. “A little. There’s no rule book, you know? Everyone has different expectations about who’s going to touch whom, or how far it’s all going to go.” “How do you mean?” I shrug. “I wasn’t sure my not-girlfriend wanted me to actually have sex with the other woman. I thought that might be crossing some unspoken line or something. But it turns out that’s exactly what she wanted, and she got annoyed I didn’t go right for it.” Cassie laughs, clearly enjoying the story for more than just the turn-on factor. “You mean you didn’t have a conversation about it?” “Not really. I guess in hindsight, I suppose a little communication might have been useful.” “That does seem to be key.” “True,” I say, wondering if it could be that simple. What if I just told Cassie everything? About the money, the job, my family… But no. I’ve done that before. And then I’ve watched Junie’s face crumple when I have to explain to her that we won’t be having lunch with Kaitlyn anymore. Or Paula. Or— “Anyway,” I continue, “I guess it all worked out. Everyone got off, anyway. I made sure of that.” “Oh, come on!” Cassie smacks my arm, making my wine slosh dangerously close to the rim. “I need more detail than that!”
“What? Like positions or something?” “Yes, please.” She grins and sips her wine again. “Uh, well—I was on my back for a while with my not-girlfriend riding me. Then they switched spots and the other woman climbed on. You’re sure you want to hear this?” “Definitely.” Her cheeks are flushed, and she squirms the way I’ve seen her do when she’s really turned on. “In a way, I was sort of like a carnival ride or something,” I say. “They experimented with touching and licking and stroking each other while they took turns riding me. Not that I had any complaints about it.” It occurs to me I’m making this sound pretty passive. Cassie wanted a sex fantasy, and I’m basically confessing that my one shot at a threesome was sort of ho-hum. Not that it didn’t check a major box on my own sexual bucket list, but it left something to be desired. Intimacy, for one. Connection. It occurs to me that I’m sharing more with her now than I have in all the weeks we’ve spent time together. True, it’s a years-old sex story. But I’m opening up. Doesn’t that count for something? But then I remember what it felt like the morning after that threesome. Jade—that was my not-girlfriend —was primed for the role of a jet-setting millionaire’s girlfriend. The parties, the jewelry, the crazy sex that seemed more like a ploy to keep me hooked rather than something to build intimacy. It was par for the course, as far as my relationships go. This thing with Cassie started out sexual, too. And I’m pretty sure I’m an idiot for even thinking it could be more. “So, that’s pretty much it.” I take another sip of wine. I don’t know why, but I feel hollow and raw. “I’m impressed,” Cassie says. “This was your chance to tell me some porn-star tale about how you nailed two chicks at once with your massive meat wand and left them both begging for more.” I laugh and finish the last of my wine. “Sorry to disappoint you. If it helps, I could make up a story about the time I made a whole roomful of women come using only mental telepathy.” “I’ll pass,” she says. “I was wondering, though. Do you think when we cross the last item off the list, there’s a chance we could still—” The buzzing of my iPad halts Cassie’s question right there. I glance down, and instantly regret not disabling the feature that displays incoming calls to my iPhone. Junie Traxel. I snatch the iPad off the table and hit “decline,” angling the screen away from Cassie and I hope like hell she didn’t see the name. That she won’t ask questions or— “Do you need to get that?” I swallow hard, doing my best not to look guilty. “Nope. I’m with you. I don’t take calls from other people when I’m with you.” She studies me a moment, and I can’t tell from her expression what she saw. She picks up her wine and takes a casual sip, her expression giving nothing away. “Can I ask you something?”
I swallow hard. “Sure.” She seems to hesitate, looking down into her glass. When she meets my eyes, she looks serious. “Do you promise—cross your heart and hope to die promise—you’re not married?” I don’t know why, but the question fills me with relief. This is one question at least that I can answer honestly. “I cross my heart and hope to die, I am not, and have never been married. Never,” I add for extra emphasis, just in case she doesn’t believe me. “I believe you,” she says. “Good.” Again, I consider telling her. About my sister. About our parents. About all the women who’ve cut and run when they realized I wasn’t the jet-setting millionaire they thought I’d be. But I can’t do that. I can’t risk everything now. All I can do is see this thing with Cassie through to the end, exactly like we planned it. “Come on,” I say. “Let’s Google some sex positions.” “Okay,” she says and picks up the iPad again.
Chapter Sixteen CASSIE “Here, try the ’09 Golden Oaks pinot blanc. It’s divine.” I look up to see Missy handing a glass of wine to Lisa, who’s balancing a blue plate topped with something I couldn’t possibly pronounce. I think there’s shrimp involved. We’re at a fancy seafood-and-wine thing on the Oregon coast, which is actually more low-key than it sounds. I like seafood. I like wine. What I don’t like is the fact that I’m bracing myself for a conversation about how likely I am to scandalize their college friends with tales of my debauchery. Now that Simon and I have turned my fibs into truths, I feel strangely protective of them. Luckily, my sisters seem more focused on the wedding than the bachelorette party. As if on cue, Lisa whips out her phone. “What do you think of these napkin rings for the rehearsal dinner?” She thrusts out the gadget, and I take a step back like she’s holding kryptonite. “I have no idea,” I tell her. “Can’t people just unfold the napkins and put them in their laps?” My sisters both look at me like I’ve suggested an orgy in place of the first dance. Truth be told, that would be my preference. Thoughts of sex remind me of Simon again, which has me smiling in a way they probably interpret as approval of the napkin choices. “Do you like the one on the right or the one on the left?” Missy demands. “Uh—right.” I don’t specify her right or mine. I honestly don’t care. I’m too busy trying not to think about Simon. We haven’t talked for several days. That’s not unusual, especially since we’ve both been traveling. Me to the Oregon Coast to this wine thing with my sisters, and Simon to—well, actually, he never told me. But I know he’s out of town, and I know not to expect a lot of communication. So why do I keep glancing at my phone? We’re not in a relationship. We only have two more items on the list—the roleplay one, and the Post Hole Digger, which we never figured out the other night. In fact, we ended up making love slow and sweet in my bed, then falling asleep twined in each other’s arms. Which does seem kind of relationshippy, now that I think about it. Is he thinking about it? “Don’t you think so, Cassie?” “Wha—what?” I take a gulp of wine and force my attention back to my sisters. Missy is regarding me with an expectant
look, and Lisa’s still holding out her phone. “What?” I try again. “Yes, the napkin rings are very nice.” Both sisters roll their eyes. “No,” Lisa asks. “We were talking about dresses for the rehearsal dinner. About what might look nice on you.” “Me?” Missy nods and pops a tiny crab puff in her mouth with the tips of her French-manicured fingers. She chews and swallows before speaking, the model of perfect manners. “And before you say it, no, we’re not making your dress out of plaid flannel and letting you wear your lumberjack boots.” I resist the urge to glare at them, but I do resent the implication. That there’s Cassie, the manly chick who plays in the dirt, or Missy and Lisa, the proper ladies who can distinguish between eggshell and cream paper for their thank-you notes. Nothing in between. “I’m fine with wearing a dress,” I tell them. “I actually wore one a few nights ago when Simon and I went out for dinner.” At the mention of Simon, my sisters’ expressions shift from vaguely patronizing to something bordering on impressed. Lisa sidles close as she nibbles a shrimp. “So, are you and this guy serious?” “Of course not.” My response is hasty, but my sisters smell blood in the water. “Please,” Missy scoffs. “I see the look on your face.” “What look?” “The one that says you’re hooked.” She smirks and takes a sip of her wine. “The one that says this guy isn’t just one of your flings.” I hate that her words send tiny spears of uncertainty into my chest. Am I hooked? I want to say no. I want to argue that Simon’s just a fling. It’s what we agreed, after all, and nothing’s been said to indicate otherwise. “When are you seeing him again?” Lisa asks. “I don’t know.” I try to keep my voice cool, but I’m not sure it’s working. I take another sip of wine. “We haven’t really connected for a couple days. We’ve both been traveling.” “Where’d you say he went this weekend?” Missy asks. “Some sort of work trip,” I tell her. “I’m not sure where. We didn’t really talk about it.” I try not to let it bother me that Simon has seemed oddly tight-lipped lately. That he clammed up when I tried to probe for details about his job or his family or anything of a personal nature. Does he travel often for work? Does he have siblings or parents he visits? I have no idea. “What kind of car does he drive?” Missy asks, giving me yet another question for which I have no answer. “I don’t know,” I tell her. “We took a limo to Cascara Springs Resort.” I’m hoping to distract them with that juicy detail, but it’s clear from Missy’s expression she’s undeterred. “Right, but you’ve gone out plenty of other times.” Lisa sips her wine. “What did he drive when you went on dates before the trip?”
I shrug and grab a scallop off my sister’s plate. Realizing how little I actually know about the man I’ve been sleeping with is making me edgy. “We usually hang out at my place,” I say. “Or take Uber. We took my work truck to the mountains a couple weeks ago.” My sisters exchange a look I recognize as silent judgment. Or not-so-silent, in Missy’s case. “Are you sure he even has a car?” I roll my eyes to indicate this is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard, even though the words hit home. “I don’t know, Missy. Maybe he relies on public transportation. Would that be the worst thing in the world? The guy made me come my brains out in the spa at a luxury resort. Does it really matter what he drives?” There. That got a flash of respect. Or something, anyway. I saw it in both their eyes just now, and it felt damn good. Missy signals the sommelier behind the table and holds out her glass. “Do you have any chardonnay with more oaky undertones? This one’s too flat for me.” The guy raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t say anything. Just pours from another bottle as Lisa turns away to signal the conversation is over. I catch the guy’s eye and give him a sympathetic smile. “So, this Simon,” Missy says. “He’s some sort of repairman?” “He’s a little more than that,” I say with a hoity note in my voice, even though I’m not entirely sure what his job title is. “He troubleshoots all kinds of computer problems and also works the retail side of things.” “I see,” says Lisa. “So, is this just a sex thing, then?” “I don’t know, Lisa.” I frown, annoyed to realize I’ve just taken the bait. “Yes. No. I don’t know.” “So, you do like him!” Missy’s look is triumphant. She rarely gets me to admit to anything, so this is a big deal. “I mean as more than just a casual thing.” “Look, I’m not sure, okay? I’m not going to start planning a wedding or anything if that’s what you mean.” Lisa smiles and sidles up close to me. She puts an arm around me, and for a second it feels like we’re the sort of close siblings I always wished we were. “You don’t have to marry him, silly,” Lisa says. “Not right away, anyhow. It’s just nice to see you crushing on someone.” “Right,” Missy agrees. “Someone who thinks you’re fabulous enough to take on a luxury trip to Cascara Springs Resort.” “Exactly!” Lisa smiles. “Gary’s never taken me to Cascara Springs.” Maybe it’s the wine. Maybe it’s the fact that my sisters are being weirdly nice to me, at least in their own snobby way. Maybe it’s the fact that I might be ready to admit it. Yes, I really do want to date Simon. Not just the sex stuff. And I think he might feel the same. I hope he does, anyway. He could have taken anyone on that trip to Cascara Springs, but he chose to go with me. He could have skipped the uncomfortable items on the list like the snow sex, but he didn’t. He could have whipped through The List in a matter of days, but he’s
taken his time. He’s gotten to know me—not just my turn-ons, but how I like my coffee and what I love about my job. You don’t do that if you just want sex, right? “Yeah,” I concede, taking a small sip of my own wine. I realize I’m smiling, and I’m not sure when that happened. “I’m into him. More than I have been with anyone for a while.” My sisters titter and exchange a knowing smile. “I thought so!” Missy bites triumphantly into a crudité. “Do you have any photos of him?” Lisa asks. I start to pull out my phone, but Missy waves me aside. “Let’s wait. Our pedicure appointment is in thirty minutes, and I want to grab coffee before we go.” “Come on.” Lisa grabs my hand. “Let’s get our stuff from the coat-check guy.” We get bundled up in rain gear and gloves. The weather’s chilly outside, but it’s not raining at the moment. That makes it a rare day on the Oregon coast. I zip up my kelly-green raincoat and head down the boardwalk with my sisters flanking me in their designer rain gear. “Parker texted,” Missy says as she links her arm through mine. “He says to tell everyone hi.” “Hi, Parker,” Lisa choruses with a little eye roll that makes me like her more. “Gary’s giving me space this weekend. He knows it’s a girls’ weekend.” “Hmph,” says Missy, clearly unsure who just won the competition. She turns to me. “How about you, Cassie?” “What about me?” “Have you heard from your boyfriend?” “He’s not my boyfriend,” I remind them, feeling my cheeks warm up just a little. I blame it on the wind. “Oh, please,” Lisa says. “A guy doesn’t take you to Cascara Springs and a romantic trip to the mountains for no reason.” The List. The List was his reason. Or was it? I bite back the urge to tell them the whole stupid story. To get their take on what’s happening between us. My sisters have always been experts on relationships and dating in ways I could never fathom. But I’m not sure I’m ready to open up yet. To let them see the version of me that’s somewhere between dirt-digging PhD and wild vixen. The one who’s actually a little vulnerable. “We’re giving each other space this weekend,” I tell them. “I let him know it was important to me to spend quality time with my sisters.” They beam at that, pleased to be the focus of my attention. Lisa grabs my other arm so we’re walking like some awkward six-legged creature down the narrow Newport sidewalk. “We’re glad you came with us, Cass,” she says. “We didn’t think you would.” “What?” I almost stop walking. “Why would you say that?” “I don’t know,” Missy says. “You never seem interested in doing stuff with us.” “You’re always making excuses,” Lisa adds. “Like maybe the kinds of things we’re interested in are
boring to someone with a PhD and all those other fancy letters after your name.” I feel a tightness in my chest that wasn’t there before, and I blink back a sharp sting in my eyes. Is that how my sisters see me? As someone who’s too good to spend time with them? I always thought it was the other way around. “I’m glad to hang out with you,” I tell them. “It’s been fun.” With some surprise, I realize I mean it. I really care about my sisters. Sure, we’re opposites in a lot of ways, but we have more in common than I once believed. We love travel and wine and food. We’re generous with each other. We’re passionate about the things that are important to us, even if they’re not the same things. We have a fierce love of family, warts and all. I’m tempted to talk with them about Simon. To get their opinion on whether I might really have a shot at something serious. My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I have a crazy flash of hope it’s him. That maybe I summoned him with my thoughts. But it’s just a note from one of my coworkers about soil samples from a mill site in eastern Oregon. I start to shove my phone back into my pocket, but Missy reaches for it. “Hey!” she says. “Weren’t you going to show us photos of your man?” “Oh. Right. Sure.” They stop walking and huddle up next to me on the sidewalk as I flip through my photo library. I want to angle it away so I can find something flattering instead of all these shots of job sites. I realize that I don’t have any photos of Simon and me together, and I feel a little sad. At last, I find a shot of him standing in the woods. I snapped it when he was turned away, gazing out through the trees at the mountains in the distance. This was just after the Forest Service ranger left, but just before we had sex again, this time across the bench seat of my truck. It’s just his profile, but you can still see his face a little. And you can definitely see his ass. His snug jeans that make it clear the man knows his way around a gym. I hold the phone out so my sisters can see. “Wow.” The stunned look on Missy’s face makes me even happier than this single syllable does. “That’s your boyfriend?” “He’s not my boyfriend.” Still, I’m smiling as I peer at the screen. “That’s Simon.” I feel a weird sense of possession when I say his name. “He looks sort of familiar.” Missy wrinkles her nose the way she does when she’s thinking. “What did you say his last name is?” I didn’t, actually. As a matter of fact, I’m ashamed to admit I don’t remember. I know he told me weeks ago, but it went in one ear and out the other. At a certain point, it becomes awkward to ask the man you’re sleeping with, “excuse me, what was your name again?” But there’s no way in hell I’m admitting this to my sisters. Will one more little white lie really hurt? “Simon—Simon Glass,” I say. “His name is Simon Glass.” Oh my God. I realize I’ve just blatantly stolen this from an old Brady Bunch episode where Jan Brady
invents a fake boyfriend named George Glass. I say a silent prayer my sisters won’t remember this. They were always more interested in watching the Home and Garden network anyway. Luckily, no one bats an eyelash. “Simon Glass,” Missy repeats. “Huh. Doesn’t ring a bell.” Lisa frowns. “So, you’d be Cassie Glass if you got married?” “No,” I say with exaggerated patience. “I’d keep my maiden name, of course. It’s the twenty-first century. Women can keep their maiden names, you know.” Good Lord. I can’t believe I just answered that question. That I’m even entertaining my sisters’ domesticated inquiries instead of scoffing at them like I normally would. I look down at myself to make sure I haven’t spontaneously sprouted a cashmere sweater set and pearls. Nope. I’m regular old Cassie. And while I have no plans to inhabit my sisters’ world anytime soon, it does feel good to be bonding with them on some level. “She can start using her full name,” Missy is busy telling Lisa, still hung up on my marital future. “Cassondra Glass sounds very elegant.” “Oh, you’re right!” I roll my eyes and stuff my phone back in my pocket. There’s no reasoning with them, so I won’t bother trying. We start walking again, and the ocean breeze tastes fresh and cool. My skin is prickling pleasantly from the salty air, and I think about snapping a photo of the waves to send to Simon. Would that be too much of a girlfriend move? And even if it is, would that be the worst thing? “Oooh, there’s a bakery,” Missy says. “Let’s see if they have coffee.” Lisa nods. “Okay, but if they don’t have flax milk, I’m out of there.” Missy pushes open the door to the little shop, and we head inside. The space is warm and smells like cinnamon and coffee beans. I breathe deeply, enjoying the steamy aroma of coffee and the soft whoosh of an espresso machine. I stare up at the readerboard above the counter, one of those old-school chalkboards with colorful hearts and flowers stenciled along the border. The chai sounds good, or maybe a mint latte. I’ve almost made up my mind when I feel a tingle on the back of my neck. Like someone’s watching me. Slowly, I turn around. It’s Simon. Here. In Newport. Less than twenty feet from where I stand in my clunky rain boots and pilled sweater. But instead of moving toward me, he’s moving away. He’s heading for the door in a hurry, glancing back at me with a fretful expression. My gaze locks with his, and I realize he’s not alone. A woman with shoulder-length caramel hair is holding his arm, her face turned away from me as she studies the row of souvenir mugs on the wall. Simon freezes. He’s ten feet away, and he looks like a teenager who got caught sneaking out of the house. I hear a rushing sound in my ears, and I wonder if it’s the espresso maker or my brain exploding. “Cassie,” he says. It’s the first time the sound of my own name has filled me with dread.
Chapter Seventeen SIMON As I stare at Cassie across the espresso-fogged café, I realize I’ve never felt so torn. Part of me knows distancing myself from her is the easiest way to make a clean break. To keep either of us from getting too attached. Another part knows that if my sister meets her, it’s all over. I’ll have three years of explaining things every time Junie asks, “Where’s Cassie?” and the real answer is, “she found a guy with a lot less baggage.” And another part of me just wants to shove this fucking rack of mugs out of the way, race across the room, take her in my arms, and— “Cassie,” I choke out. “Uh, hey.” The two women flanking her have the same green eyes, but I know from Cassie’s descriptions that the taller one is Missy. That means the blonde in the Burberry raincoat is Lisa. I realize I can pick her sisters out of a lineup and name them on sight. Cassie doesn’t know I have a sister. “Simon?” Junie tugs my coat sleeve. “I like this mug a lot. The one with the cats?” I say good-bye to any thought I might’ve had about whisking Junie out of here before she connects the dots between me and the perplexed-looking woman in the green raincoat. I turn to Junie, hoping maybe I can distract her. “Which of those T-shirts over there looks like one you’d wear?” I ask. Junie frowns at the T-shirts, then looks back at me. “They’re all exactly the same.” Right. That they are. I give up my attempt to distract my sister and turn back to Cassie. She and her sisters are walking toward me now, and I know I need to do a better job looking excited instead of petrified. Since excitement is my normal state around Cassie, that part’s not hard. But the circumstances are less than ideal. “Hey, Cassie,” I croak out. “It’s so good to see you.” “Simon. I didn’t realize you’d be in Newport, too.” “Who are you?” Junie blurts. She doesn’t give Cassie a chance to respond before she sticks out her right hand the way she’s learned in the business class we teach in the WorkAbility program. “I’m Junie.
I’m Simon’s sister.” I watch Cassie’s face for a reaction. It’s usually pretty obvious to anyone meeting my sister that she has Down syndrome. The facial features are recognizable, and Junie’s speech patterns are different from most people’s. But if Cassie is surprised—either that I have a sister, or that she has a disability—her expression doesn’t show it. “Hi, Junie.” Cassie’s expression is warm and open as she shakes Junie’s hand with friendly enthusiasm. “I’m Cassie. It’s nice to meet you. These are my sisters, Missy and Lisa.” All the sisters shake hands, and I say a silent prayer the conversation will end here. Maybe I can hustle Junie out of here and tell her the three women are just friends. Maybe— “Simon?” Missy cocks her head at me before turning to Cassie. “This is the Simon? The guy you’re dating?” Dating? I wonder if that’s Cassie’s word or Missy’s. Is that how Cassie described our arrangement? I watch Cassie’s face go bright pink, and she opens her mouth to answer. I have no idea what she’s going to say, and part of me wants to cut her off. “You’re Simon’s girlfriend?” My sister’s voice is much too loud, and I can see joy written on her face like I’ve just given her a kitten for Christmas. She bounces on her heels and looks from me to Cassie and back to me again. “I like when you have girlfriends.” Christ. I know she does. This is what I was hoping to avoid. “Right,” I say, neither confirming nor denying the whole girlfriend thing. “It’s great running into you, Cassie. We were actually just headed out, so—” “No, we weren’t,” Junie says. “You said we could order hot chocolate.” Dammit. She’s right, of course. I fish my wallet out of my pocket, thinking maybe I can hand Junie the cash and send her up to the counter for the cocoa. That’ll buy me some time. “Wait, so your name is Simon Glass?” This time it’s Lisa, the younger sister, who’s looking at me with deep suspicion. Then again, I’m the one who should be suspicious. Why the hell is she calling me Simon Glass? “I—uh—” I’m honestly not sure how to answer. I look to Cassie for help, but she’s just standing there with her face frozen somewhere between horror and embarrassment. “Your last name’s not Glass!” Lisa snaps her fingers like she’s just figured out twenty-four down in the New York Times crossword puzzle. “It’s Traxel, right?” Junie laughs beside me, not reading the awkwardness of the situation at all. “Simon Glass!” she hoots. “That’s a good name. Simon Glass!” Cassie’s looking like she wants the floor to open up and swallow her. I can relate. But I need to extract myself as carefully as possible from this situation. Both sisters are zoomed in on me, and I suspect there’s no graceful exit available.
“You’re definitely Simon Traxel,” Lisa says. “I never forget a face.” “Who’s Simon Traxel?” Missy is frowning, studying me like she’s wondering if I’m someone she ought to know. “Simon Traxel.” Lisa puts a heavy emphasis on the last name, like that’s supposed to jog her sister’s memory. It doesn’t seem to be jogging Cassie’s which is interesting. I’ve gone out of my way to avoid giving my last name whenever possible, putting dinner reservations under silly pseudonyms in case my real last name were to tip her off to the fact that she’s been sleeping with the wealthiest asshole in the Pacific Northwest. From the look on Cassie’s face, the name’s not ringing a bell. But it is for Lisa. “Don’t you remember?” she says to Missy. “We just read that article about him in Forbes.” “That’s him?” Missy blinks. “Oh my God, you’re right. He’s that Simon Traxel.” “He’s famous,” Junie supplies, clearly enjoying the conversation. “He’s a gazillionaire.” I grit my teeth and hope for the floor to swallow me up. “Technically, I don’t think gazillion is a number.” I attempt to execute a smile that doesn’t quite work. “Look, my sister and I were just heading out to— “My goodness,” Missy says. “I remember seeing you in Business Insider. In their roundup of the top five hundred wealthiest people in America.” “He’s number one!” Junie adds, though I’m certain she’s never seen the article. She just likes contributing to the discussion, and I can hardly blame her for that. “I’m not number one,” is my feeble reply. “I was pretty far down the list, actually. Near the bottom.” I glance at Cassie, hoping she sees the humor in the situation. Hoping she doesn’t hate my guts. But she’s staring at me like she’s never seen me before in her life. “I don’t understand,” she says. Neither do I. She deserves an explanation, but at the moment, I have nothing. I open my mouth anyway, hoping something helpful will come tumbling out. But Missy beats me to the punch. “Nice going, Cass!” She gives me an approving once-over. “I didn’t know you had it in you.” “Oh, I’ve had it in me, all right,” Cassie mutters. But she’s not smiling. In fact, she’s starting to look pissed. But that seems to sail right over her sisters’ heads. “You have our approval,” Lisa says. “He’s a very upstanding citizen. We’ve read all about him.” “Better marry this one,” Missy adds. Beside me, Junie gasps. “You’re getting married?” She beams up at me. Before I can say anything, she turns to Cassie and engulfs her in a huge hug. “You’re marrying my brother!” Oh, God. Oh, God, no. “No one’s getting married.” I bark the words a lot more loudly than I mean to. Everyone jumps. Even Junie bolts backward, breaking the hug like Cassie just bit her.
This is so not how I saw today going. “Look, Cassie and I are friends,” I tell Junie in my best calm-brother voice. “That’s it. Just friends.” “Friends,” Missy repeats, scowling. “Didn’t you just take her on a romantic getaway to Cascara Springs Resort?” “And didn’t you take her on a special road trip to that wilderness area she loves so much near—” “Okay,” I interrupt, raking my fingers through my hair. I shoot Cassie an imploring look, hoping she’ll have my back on this. Hoping I haven’t fucked everything up. But Cassie’s expression is blank. “Sure,” she says slowly. “We’re just friends.” Beside her, Missy rolls her eyes. Lisa is busy glaring. But Cassie just stares at me like she’s seeing me for the first time. Like she can’t stand what she sees. “Actually, more like acquaintances,” she says, her voice a little louder now. “We hardly know each other at all.”
Chapter Eighteen CASSIE I’m such an idiot. “Here.” Lisa hands me a glass, then plunks down on the hotel bed beside me. “It’s homemade elderflower liqueur mixed with fresh-squeezed orange juice.” “And vodka,” Missy adds, dropping onto the bed on my other side. “Lots of vodka.” I take the drink, but I don’t sip it. I rest it on the knee of my faded gray yoga pants and try not to cry. “How did I not know he was a gazillionaire?” “Because he didn’t want you to know?” Missy suggests. She’s holding a plate of cookies on her lap, and offers one to me. “Homemade gingersnap?” “Obviously.” I take a cookie and bite savagely into it. “I mean the part about Simon not wanting me to know. Not the cookie. Though I should have figured it out.” Both the cookie and the man. How did I not catch on that I was sleeping with some famous gazillionaire? The evasive answers to personal questions. The fancy spa experience. The glimpse I caught of our dinner bill at Cascara Springs with a tip so huge I felt certain it was a mistake. It wasn’t a mistake. Or rather, it was. This whole damn thing was a mistake. I take a slow sip of the cocktail, and it burns pleasantly down my throat. Not for the first time, I feel grateful for my sisters’ craftiness. And for the fact that they’re both being pretty cool about this. They even cancelled our pedicure appointment, which they’d never dream of doing for anything less than a crisis. “What a jerk,” Missy mutters. She takes her own cookie and shoves the whole thing in her mouth, something I haven’t seen her do since we were in grade school and Lisa had the habit of licking things to claim them. “And the way he pretended not to know you?” “I kinda get that part,” I tell her. “He was trying not to upset his sister.” “By having a girlfriend?” She shakes her head. “Trust me, honey. You don’t want to get involved with a guy who hides you from his family.” This is true. Then again, I’m guilty of hiding a few details from mine. Maybe it’s time to stop. I look at my sisters, one on each side of me like sturdy, well-polished bookends. We may not have much in common, but we’re family. That counts for something. I clear my throat. “Did I tell you how Simon and I met?” My sisters shake their heads in unison, which I knew they would. Because obviously, I haven’t told
them anything. That’s when I realize I’m just as bad as Simon. Maybe worse. Because I’ve been lying to my family for years. It’s time I come clean. And so I do, starting from the beginning. The waaaay beginning, back before I even thought of The List. Back when I first decided it would be easier to play the saucy vixen sister than to admit who I really am. I tell them all of it. The way Career Cassie struggled to be a girl in a man’s world, and how she also struggled with being not-so-girly in her sisters’ world. They listen, not saying a word, while I explain that my exploits—all those crazy sex stories—weren’t true at all. Not until Simon, anyway. By the time I’m done with the story, both sisters are frowning. “I don’t understand,” Lisa says. “You made up this wild and crazy sex life to one-up us somehow?” I shake my head and clutch my drink a little tighter. “Not to one-up you, exactly. Just to be different. I knew I couldn’t be you guys, and I didn’t want to be.” “Gee, thanks.” I glance at Missy, expecting to see defensiveness, but all I see is sympathy. She pats my knee and offers a small smile. “I get it. I think. You’re not like us.” “But that’s okay,” Lisa adds. “No one says all the sisters in a family have to be the same.” I sigh and rest my glass on my knee. “I didn’t want to be you, but I didn’t want to be just the girl in work boots with dirty fingernails, either,” I said. “So, I made myself more interesting.” “Oh, Cassie.” Lisa puts her hand on my knee. “You were already interesting.” “No matter what,” Missy agrees. “Even without the kinky sex stories.” Lisa grins. “Though I did sort of enjoy those.” I snort-laugh in a very unladylike way. “Me, too. Though I enjoyed it a lot more when things started happening for real.” Missy puts an arm around me, then reaches out and breaks the last cookie into smaller bites. I take one of them, while Lisa reaches for the other. We chew in silence, none of us quite sure where to go from here. “Wanna tell us the sexy details?” Lisa grins and sips her cocktail. “Actually, no,” I say. “For once, I think I prefer to keep those private.” “I’ll drink to that.” Missy lifts her glass and I follow suit, along with Lisa. We clink them together, sloshing a little liquid on the bedspread. Neither sister rushes to clean it up, which I find oddly touching. Things are over with Simon. That much is clear. He may have lied about some things, but he never lied about what he wanted from me. Just sex. That’s what we agreed. I’m the one who went and deviated from the plan. I’m the one who thought we were building something bigger, getting to know each other in between all the sexy exploits. It’s clear now that I never knew the man at all. But at least I know my sisters a little better than before. That’s something. I take another sip of my drink and lean into Missy’s shoulder as Lisa puts an arm around me and squeezes.
Chapter Nineteen SIMON I’ve read the text message so many times in the last five days that the words are practically tattooed on the inside of my eyelids. Hope you had fun at the beach. I’m ditching the rest of The List, so we don’t need to meet anymore, but thanks for your help. It was fun getting to know you! I don’t know what stings more. The breezy, carefree tone, or those final words. It was fun getting to know you! But she didn’t get to know me at all. Not the real me, anyway. Sure, she knows what I’m like on a road trip to the mountains or an afternoon at a fancy spa. She knows what I’m like in bed, and that I prefer red wine to white. But my family? My career? My life? I never let her in at all. Which was on purpose, of course. There was no sense getting attached if we’d both agreed it was just a temporary thing for fun. I should be grateful she’s letting me off easy, cutting me loose before anyone gets attached or gets hurt. It’s better this way. That’s what I keep telling myself as I storm through my work week in a shitty mood. I’m grumpy and out-of-sorts, and I take to working alone at the headquarters so I won’t be a dick to any of my employees. I double up on gym time, hoping to burn off some of the self-loathing that’s eating at me. I take Junie to dinner and cross my fingers she doesn’t notice my lousy attitude. By the time I drop her off, my cheeks hurt from forcing myself to smile. “Why are you so sad, Simon?” So much for that. I lean against the porch railing of Junie’s group home, aware this is going to be a longer drop-off than I expected. “I’m just busy at work.” She frowns. I can’t tell if she doesn’t believe me or if something else is puzzling about my response. “You need love.” “Good idea.” I spread my arms wide and offer a half-hearted smile. “You can give me an extra-big hug, then.”
She laughs and gives my arm a playful swat. “Not that kind of love. The other kind.” Junie gives me a meaningful look, and I try not to grimace. My sister has been known to watch soap operas on her days off, and last year she had a crush on a guy here at the residence. I’m pretty sure she knows more than I wish she did about other kinds of love. “I have all the love I need,” I assure her. “You’ve got me covered.” “I don’t think so. You’re sad.” “I’m not,” I insist. “You’re a very bad liar.” Her words sting more than she means them to. My lies are what made this whole thing with Cassie so much worse. “Yeah,” I mutter. “That’s probably true.” She shakes her head and gives me a pitying look. Then she wraps her arms around me. “I love you, Simon.” “Love you, too, Junebug.” She lets go of me and turns to go inside the house. “Maybe you should get a girlfriend.” “I’ll take that under advisement.” “That one at the beach was nice. I like her.” See? This is why I can’t have girlfriends. Junie met Cassie for two minutes, and she’s already attached. Another reminder why this could never work. “Bye, Junie.” I step off the porch and head to my car. “I’ll see you on Sunday.” “See you Sunday!” She’s still waving from the porch as I pull away from the curb and head down the street. I glance at the clock on the dash and wonder if I should squeeze in another workout. It seems better than going home and noticing how big and empty my house is. It’s felt empty all week, which is stupid. I’ve lived alone my whole adult life, never once inviting a woman to move in with me. Why would I just now start feeling alone? Because she got under your skin. Even though you didn’t let her in, she got in anyway. Which is probably true, but I certainly fucked it up good now. There’s no way Cassie would want to talk to me again, even if I could have a more meaningful relationship. Which I can’t. I can’t, right? As I pull up the long driveway, I see my house is not as empty as I expected. At least the front porch isn’t. Two women sit on the wrought-iron bench my decorator put there because she said it made the house look more “homey.” If the bench made it homey, the women themselves make it look like a fucking Pottery Barn catalog. One of them is knitting something out of navy blue yarn, and the other is reading a magazine. As I pull up, I see it’s Better Homes and Gardens. Both of them look up as I pull the car to a halt, and I see it’s Cassie’s sisters. They’re both here, and for
a second, I think Cassie’s with them, too. My dumbass heart starts bouncing around like a superball in my chest, and it takes me a good thirty seconds to realize she’s nowhere in sight. The sisters watch me get out of the car. Neither stands up, and I wonder what I’m about to walk into. “Ladies,” I say. “What brings you here?” Missy speaks first. “We’d like to have a word with you.” She closes the magazine and sets it aside, then gestures to a nearby Adirondack chair that I’m pretty sure no one’s ever sat in before. Part of me wants to point out the social faux pas of inviting yourself to someone’s home and then giving the orders, but the truth is that I’m a little glad to see them. Maybe. I guess it depends on why they’ve come. I ease myself into the chair and rest my hands on the arms of it. I feel awkward and out of place on my own front porch, and I just want one of these two to tell me how Cassie’s doing. If she hates me, or if she’s already forgotten my name. “He does have nice hands,” Lisa says to Missy. “That is a point in his favor.” They’re talking about me like there’s some sort of score sheet I’m unaware of, and I feel a flicker of hope that’s Cassie’s doing. But no. Cassie is done with me. She made that clear. I clear my throat. “How did you know where I live?” “That Forbes article had a photo of the view from your back deck,” Lisa says. “Lake Oswego isn’t that big. It wasn’t hard to figure out.” “Remind me to install a better security system.” “We didn’t break in,” Lisa points out. I don’t doubt that they could if they wanted to. These two seem crafty. Missy reaches below the seat and pulls out a jar filled with amber liquid and something that looks like mint leaves. She pours some into a glass then reaches into a small cooler at her feet and plucks a few ice cubes with silver tongs. She drops them into a glass and hands it to me, while Lisa produces a small glass jar filled with tiny cookies, each with an almond in the center. I take two, hoping they haven’t shown up here to poison me. If they have, it’s an okay way to go. This is a damn good cookie. “You take sugar in your iced tea?” Missy asks. “I’m good, thank you.” As soon as we’re all settled in with our drinks and snacks in hand, Lisa begins the lecture portion of the afternoon. “We’re here about Cassie.” My stupid heart does a painful surge at the sound of her name, but I do my best to keep my expression neutral. “I kinda figured.” “She told us how the two of you met.” Missy gives me a knowing look, but I only nod. No way am I volunteering anything. I don’t know what Cassie actually told them, so I’m keeping quiet. “About The List,” Lisa adds. “And the sex stuff.” “Not the details,” Missy adds, probably because she saw me start to choke on my tea. “She was
discreet.” “Good,” I reply, not sure how to respond to that. “I guess that’s—something.” What a stupid reply. If they didn’t already hate me, I’d be worried about the impression I’m giving. That I’m an uneducated idiot whose conversational skills rival those of a drunk baboon. “Okay, then.” Lisa presses her lips together. “We’d like to get everything out on the table.” Missy gives me a pointed look, and I know what she’s thinking. That I’m the one who should be spilling my guts. That I’m the one who should be volunteering every last detail about myself. But Lisa surprises me with her next words. “There are a few things you should know about Cassie,” she says. Missy nods. “Important things.” “For instance, when we were in high school, I told her I could do a Brazilian blowout on her hair,” Lisa says. “Only I screwed something up, and she ended up with orange patches.” She runs her palms down the knees of her tailored slacks. “It was not one of my finest moments. But she forgave me.” “She also forgave me the time I set her up on a blind date with a guy who brought his mother along,” Missy says. “Though she probably shouldn’t have.” I frown, not quite sure what these two are driving at. “Is there a reason you’re wanting me to know how much of your shit she puts up with? Because I’ve gotta tell you, I kinda figured that out on my own.” The sisters exchange a look before turning back to me. Missy sighs like she’s having to explain something to an exceptionally dense child. “That’s not what we’re saying at all,” she tells me with exaggerated patience. “We’re saying she understands that people make mistakes.” “And she’s willing to forgive the people she cares about.” “Provided those people make amends.” Lisa folds her arms over her chest and levels me with a look I’m certain brings her fiancé to his knees on a regular basis. “Those were some pretty big lies you told her.” “I didn’t lie, exactly.” Both women frown at me, and I have the good sense to look away. “Fine,” I say. “There may have been a few small fibs about the vacation.” “There were plenty of lies by omission,” Missy says. “Those count, too.” I sigh. I feel exhausted, which might have something to do with the fact that I haven’t slept well all week. I’ll admit it. I enjoyed sleeping next to Cassie the few times it happened. I loved hearing her laugh across the table from me at dinner, or reaching across the bed at night to stroke the gentle curve of her shoulder. I miss the way she rolls her eyes when I annoy her, or the soft little sighs she makes in her sleep. Fine. I miss her whether I’m awake or asleep. I’m not sure what to do. “Look, I’ve spent the last five or six years dating women who only want me for my money.” “Not very smart of you,” Lisa says. Her arms are still folded, and she reminds me of an expensivelydressed school teacher.
Missy gives a small snort of disgust. “I can assure you that’s not who Cassie is. She’s not the sort of woman who’d care one iota about your money.” I look down into my tea. “No, she only wants me for my—” “Ahem,” Lisa interrupts, kicking my shin so I look up at her. “I beg to differ.” “She likes you.” Missy presses her lips together. “Probably a lot more than she should.” “And it’s obvious you like her.” Lisa picks up her iced tea and takes a dainty sip before setting the glass down on a lacy doily thing I’m just now noticing. “We saw your face in the coffee shop. When Cassie said you were just friends?” “You looked like a man who’d been punched in the stomach,” Missy says. “Like someone ran over your foot and then backed up to do it again.” Lisa nods in agreement, then cocks her head at her sister. “You know, I don’t think he even realized how much he liked her. Not until right then.” “Good point.” Missy folds her hands in her lap and looks at me. “Which is why he’s damn lucky Cassie’s the sort of woman who believes in second chances.” There’s a hopeful flicker in the center of my chest, but I ignore it. There’s no way she’ll forgive me at this point. Is there? I set down my glass and drag my hands down my face. I still haven’t figured out if the sisters are here to offer hope or to kick my ass. Maybe a little of both. Which do I want? You know damn well what you want. You’ve known it for weeks. You’re just too chickenshit to go after it. I take a deep breath and look at the sisters. “So, what are you saying?” I ask. “That she’d take me back if I asked? If I told her I wanted an actual relationship?” Lisa cocks her head at me. “Do you?” I hesitate. Not because I don’t want to answer. Because I’m scared to. “Yeah,” I admit at last. “I didn’t think I did, but then I met Cassie. And I guess—I don’t know. Maybe she’s not like all the other women I’ve dated.” “Duh.” Missy looks at me with such disdain that I’m back to wondering if they’re here to poison me. “Cassie is like no woman you’ve ever met.” “One of a kind,” Lisa agrees. “Absolutely nothing like your money-grubbing hussies.” I take a shaky breath. I want all of this to be true. Part of me is so desperate for there to be some way of fixing things that I worry I’m losing sight of the real problem. Of the reason I was so dead set against a relationship in the first place. “Junie,” I say. “My sister. She gets attached very easily. Losing someone like Cassie—it would break her heart.” “Then don’t lose Cassie, you idiot,” Missy says. “Problem solved.”
“Are you sure it’s your sister’s heart you’re really worried about?” Lisa folds her arms over her chest again. “Maybe it’s your own that scares the hell out of you.” Her words hit me like a punch in the jaw. Is she right? Is there some truth to what she’s saying? “Besides,” Missy adds. “Your sister would be lucky to have someone like Cassie in her life. Someone loving and kind and smart—” “And loyal and sweet and compassionate.” “And funny and beautiful and clever,” Missy concludes with a sharp nod. I swallow hard, trying to get my bearings. Trying to come to terms with the fact I might have fucked up the best thing that’s ever happened to me. But maybe there’s a chance to fix it. “You’re right,” I say slowly. “Cassie is all of those things. All of those things and more.” Both sisters smile at me like I’ve finally gotten a test answer right after a dozen wrong guesses. It’s Missy who speaks first. “Then to answer your earlier question, yes—I believe she’d take you back.” There’s that stupid flare in my chest again. It’s building to a small flame now, warm and hopeful. From the instant I spotted these two on my porch, this is what I’d wished they’d come to tell me. That I had a shot at this. That I could still get Cassie back. “What do I need to do?” I hate the desperation in my own voice. I hate the look the two sisters exchange. But I really hate what Lisa says next. “You’re going to need to figure that part out for yourself, smart guy.”
Chapter Twenty CASSIE In conclusion, it’s evident the warty nodules are instrumental in hosting the rhizobia, allowing for beneficial symbiosis between root and soil. There. Pure poetry. Okay, maybe not poetry, but eloquent enough to get published in the Journal of Soil Science. That’s the hope, anyway. I hit save and set my laptop down on the coffee table. I promised I’d take myself out for a nice dinner as soon I finished the article, but now I’m rethinking the plan. It’s comfy here on the sofa with my yoga pants and sloppy bun, and I kinda want to stay like this. At least I showered today. That counts for something, right? I pad barefoot to the kitchen and pour myself a glass of pinot gris. Grabbing a few homemade cheese straws Lisa left earlier when she stopped by to show me photos of the place she’ll be staying for her honeymoon, I return to the living room and set my wineglass on the coffee table. I frown at it sitting there next to the laptop, then pick it back up and set it on the end table instead. Never let anyone say I don’t learn from my mistakes. The thought of mistakes and laptop repairs in the same breath makes me think of Simon. No surprise there. Most things make me think of Simon these days, which is dumb. The man was in my life for just a few weeks. His absence shouldn’t leave such a gaping hole in my chest. You’re just horny, I tell myself. I almost believe that’s all it is. The doorbell rings, and I glance at my watch. It’s just after nine on a Friday evening. Missy called earlier to ask what I was doing tonight so she could swing by with a book I asked to borrow. I wasn’t expecting her this late, but whatever. I throw open the door without checking the peephole first, which is how I find myself staring straight at a tuxedo-clad chest that is clearly not my sister’s. The lack of boobs isn’t the only giveaway. “Hello there.” Simon’s wearing aviator Ray-Bans and cuff links I think might be real gold. He’s carrying a leather briefcase that looks like something my grandfather would have owned. I gape at him. “What the fuck?” Simon frowns. Clearly, this is not the reaction he expected.
He sets the briefcase down and slides the shades up on top of his head. The sight of those shimmery brown eyes makes me almost lose my cool. But since I have no cool points to start with, I’m unaffected. Mostly. “That’s not your line,” he says. “You’re supposed to be the innocent young college student who’s dazzled by the millionaire tycoon. I’m supposed to seduce you. Item number nine, remember?” I roll my eyes, hoping he can’t hear my heart thudding in my chest like an animal trying to escape. “I’m done with The List.” Alarm flashes in those warm brown eyes, and I realize I need to clarify. “I don’t mean I finished it with someone else,” I tell him. “I’m just done. You’re off the hook, Simon. Thanks for the ride.” I start to close the door, but he sticks out the heel of his hand and stops me. The sleeve of his jacket rides up, and I can see he’s wearing a Rolex. A fucking Rolex. “Yes, it’s real,” he says, noticing my gaze on his wrist. “This is me.” He gestures to his torso, then frowns. “Well, it’s not really me. I hate this shit, actually.” “This is your idea of seduction?” “I’m getting there,” he says. “I’ve spent the last few years trying not to look like a rich asshole. But I’m laying it all out on the table now. I’m here to be your millionaire tycoon.” “For The List.” I can’t tell if I mean it as a question or a statement, but he shakes his head. “Not just for The List. For you.” I snort and fold my arms over my chest. “So, this is your impression of a wealthy tycoon?” He nods, and I notice then that he looks more sheepish than cocky. “It’s not a very good impression. I hardly ever wear tuxedos.” “I see.” “And I might have borrowed the briefcase.” “I know, I’ve seen your backpack,” I say. “That explains the monogram that says JP.” I nudge the corner of the briefcase with my bare toe, and it flops over. I wonder what he’s got in there, or if it’s empty. “Also,” Simon continues, “I tried to get some business cards that said ‘tycoon,’ but there was a mix-up at the printer.” He reaches into the breast pocket of his tuxedo jacket and fishes out a small rectangular card. He holds it out and I take it from him, squinting down at the wording. “‘Raccoon’?” I read. “Simon Traxel, Raccoon?” “I may have been unclear in my communication.” There’s something vulnerable in his expression, and I order myself not to let it get to me. “I’m talking about more than just the business card.” I shove the card in my pocket, and lean against the doorframe again. I’m trying for casual. For an “I don’t care that you’re here” kinda vibe. I’m pretty sure I’m failing. “You lied to me, Simon.” “You’re right, I did.” He takes a shaky breath. “Well, by omission. But it was still lying. I’m sorry I let you think I was a broke computer geek without a car. But that’s not the lie I’m sorriest about.”
I swallow hard, hoping he doesn’t see how his words are affecting me. Hoping he can’t tell how glad I am that he’s standing here in my doorway right now. Instead, I fixate on what he just told me. “There’s another lie?” Simon nods. “When I said I didn’t want anything more than to be your frivolous sex toy. I wasn’t lying at first, but—” he shrugs, looking a little helpless. “Things changed.” Something soft and melty moves through my limbs, and I find myself blinking a lot harder than normal. I know I’m supposed to respond, but I can’t find any words. That’s okay, because Simon seems to have more. He rakes his fingers through his hair, forgetting about the Ray-Bans on top of his head. They hit the floor behind him, but he doesn’t turn around. “Look, I didn’t think I wanted more, but I do,” he says. “I want it with you. Only you, Cassie.” I stare at him, trying to make sense of his words. They’re what I’ve wanted to hear, but does he mean them? And at this point, am I willing to listen? “What makes you think I want more?” I watch his throat move as he swallows again. “Do you?” “Maybe.” I shake my head, annoyed that I feel so undone. “Simon, I hardly know you.” He clears his throat. “But you do know me. You might not know I own two Mercedes and vacation homes in three countries, but you know I scream like a girl when I see a spider. You know I love cheesy ‘80s movies, and that my favorite color is green. You know my awkward threesome story, which I’ve never told anyone else. But most importantly, you know I love my sister more than anyone in the world, because I lied to you so I could protect her from falling for you as much as I did.” My heart twists at these little morsels of information. At this wholehearted—albeit clumsy—effort to open up. “This is you letting me in?” He nods. “This is me being a rich asshole who’s also capable of opening up and sharing.” “I appreciate that.” I bite the edge of my lip. “For the record, I’m not after you for your money.” “I know.” “Or your dick.” He raises one eyebrow. “Okay, I might not be just after your dick,” I concede. “But other parts, too.” “Can I come in?” I hesitate only a moment. Then I step aside and let him pass through the entry and into my living room. He gives a low whistle. “This is a pretty nice apartment for a college student.” Right. We’re still roleplaying. Not very well, and there’s nothing too sexy about it. But hey, that’s real life. That does seem to be what we’re considering here. What Simon has come to offer me, if I’m willing. “Thanks,” I tell him, rolling up the sleeves of my college-girl sweatshirt. “Want me to whip up some ramen noodles, or should we go right to cramming for finals?” He grins. I’ve extended an olive branch, and he knows it. “Cramming sounds good to me.” He gives me that mischievous smile that turns my insides to mush, and I know I’m a goner.
“All right, then,” I tell him. “Give me just a second to do something.” I sit down on the sofa and pull my laptop toward me. As Simon watches, I toggle my way to a document I haven’t opened for weeks. Super awesome wild-ass (holy shit they’re gonna kill me) sex stuff to figure out before D-day I scroll down to item number nine and hover the cursor over the little checkbox. All those words wink back at me. Sexy things we’ve done. Experiences I never expected to have, especially not with the man standing in front of me with his hands stuffed awkwardly in the pockets of his tuxedo trousers. I look up at Simon and he smiles. My heart surges upward and lodges somewhere in my throat. I am such a goner. I look back at the document and click the checkbox next to item number nine. “There.” I look up at him. “Almost done. There’s just the Post Hole Digger, and I don’t think we’ll ever figure that one out.” His grin gets wider, but he doesn’t say anything right away. Instead, he peels off the tuxedo jacket and rests it over the back of the sofa. Then he walks around to the front of the couch and sits down beside me. “Yes, we will,” he says. “We’ll figure it out together.” I lick my lips, not daring to look at him. “The sex position?” “The sex position, the relationship—all of it.” He’s so close I can feel the heat from his body. So close I could climb into his lap if I felt like it. I kinda feel like it. He puts an arm around me, and I lean into all that heat. When he cups one palm around my cheek, I let him tip my face up. I’m staring into those liquid brown eyes, and I know he’s about to kiss me. I know what else is coming, too. “So, you’re saying if we finish The List, it isn’t the end?” “Nope,” he says. “It’s just the beginning.”
Epilogue SIMON “Bend over, little girl,” I murmur. “I’m going to paddle you good with this.” Cassie snort-laughs into her wineglass and gives me a practiced eye roll. “Flip the burgers, dork.” I grin and toss the barbecue tongs in one hand. “Fine. But for the record, this would totally work as a flogger.” She’s trying to look stern, but I can see the heat in her eyes. I also know she totally loved the flogger thing the other night. Hey, just because we’ve been together a year doesn’t mean we’ve stopped experimenting. “Behave yourself and take the buns.” She sets down a platter of sesame-covered rolls and gives me a suggestive wink. “Careful not to burn them.” I gaze after her buns as she saunters off toward the kitchen, hips swaying in a pair of cutoff denim shorts and a green sleeveless top I know her sisters convinced her to wear. I remind myself to send them a thankyou note as I turn my attention back to the grill. The meat sizzles when I flip the patties, rearranging them over the hot coals. I could have had my private chef handle all of this, but I wanted to do the honors. Today, Cassie and I are celebrating one year together. That’s assuming you define “together” as “the first time we mashed our genitals against each other,” which isn’t something Hallmark makes a card for. Still, it’s an important milestone, so we’ve invited the whole gang to celebrate. Missy and Lisa have been busy rearranging the centerpieces on all the bistro tables scattered around my patio. Our patio, I amend silently, a little giddy with the thought that Cassie and I now share a home. It took months of convincing before she agreed to move in with me, but I think she’s loving it as much as I am. Around-the-clock sex is only one of the reasons. “Simon?” I turn to see Lisa holding up a bottle of Veuve Clicquot, which I made sure to have well stocked just for her. “This is just sitting in the chill bucket getting sweaty,” she says. “Would you like me to go ahead and open it?” “Be my guest,” I tell her. “You’ll find glasses over there. Pour some for everyone if you want.” “Uh-uh,” Junie says, grimacing as she steps up beside Lisa. “No way. Champagne tastes like soda pop
made out of battery acid.” I frown at my sister. “When have you had champagne?” “Or battery acid?” Lisa puts her arm around Junie’s shoulders and begins walking toward the pool. “Come on. I brought some of that soda you liked at Missy’s house the other day. Want me to fix you a glass with a little umbrella in it?” “You have cherries?” “Yep! I even brought straws.” My sister beams, and I feel my heart dissolving into a sticky lump of bubblegum in my chest as the two of them disappear through the gate. As I flip another burger, someone touches my arm. I look up to see Sarah, the caretaker for Junie’s group home. “For the record, Junie didn’t have champagne,” Sarah reassures me. “It was sparkling cider at Lisa’s wedding.” “Was this before or after the groom freaked out and took off running?” Sarah grimaces. “After,” she says. “But before the sisters started drinking Dom Perignon straight from the bottle and speculating whether castration with a grapefruit spoon or a rusty nail would be more effective.” I look through the pool gate at Lisa, who’s laughing with Junie over something one of them just said. As distraught as Cassie’s sister seemed when her dickhead fiancé pulled a runaway-groom maneuver, she appears fully recovered. According to Cassie, Lisa’s better off without the prick. Turning back to Sarah, I flip another burger patty. “I’m really glad you came to Lisa’s wedding, even if it didn’t happen. Junie adores you so much, and since Cassie’s family has made Junie such a big part of their family—” “Don’t go getting sappy on me, Traxel.” Sarah grins. “You know I love hanging out with you guys.” “Still, I owe you an extra bonus. What kind of car do you like?” She laughs like I’m joking, even though I’m not. But I guess that will have to be a surprise, since Sarah smacks me on the shoulder and heads off toward the pool with the others. A few minutes later, Cassie reappears by my side with a plate of cheese slices in one hand. “At least half the crowd wants cheese.” She stands on tiptoe to kiss the edge of my jawline. “And I definitely want you.” “No problem on either count.” She grins and sinks back down on her heels, her gaze drifting toward the pool. “You know who’d be great to hook up with Sarah?” I glance down to see Cassie giving me a mischievous grin, and all I can think about is how great Cassie is with me. “Sarah’s sweet, but we are not having a threesome with my sister’s caregiver,” I tease. “Ugh! Totally not where I was going with that, you perv!” She swats my ass as I begin piling cheese slices on the sizzling patties. “I was actually thinking of setting her up with—”
“Hey, Cassie.” We both turn to see Missy approaching with a champagne flute in one hand. Her husband, Parker, is a few steps behind, and the way he’s checking out his wife’s ass gives me warm thoughts about the future for Cassie and me. “Did you make these centerpieces?” Missy asks her sister. “They’re fabulous.” Cassie lifts an eyebrow at her sister and crosses one sandal-clad ankle over the other, then leans against the deck railing. “Is that a real question? You know my idea of crafty is replacing an empty toilet paper roll, right?” “I made them,” I volunteer, earning myself a dubious look from Parker. “Well, I had them made just for Cassie. Each layer is a different type of soil from the Pacific Northwest. That blackish one is a Medford loam from southern Oregon, and the red one is a Jory soil from Douglas County, and the middle one is Walla Walla silt loam from—” “The fact that you can name even one type of soil is the reason you’re totally getting laid tonight,” Cassie interrupts, sliding an arm around my waist as she beams up at me. “Please,” Missy scoffs. “The fact that he can dress himself would be all the reason you’d need.” Cassie laughs. “Actually, I sort of prefer him undressed.” “Bad idea,” Parker says, grimacing at the grill. “For safety’s sake, no naked grilling.” “Come on, party pooper.” Missy links her arm through his. “Let’s go find the dip.” I don’t get a chance to ponder whether that’s a euphemism for something, because Cassie’s hand in the back pocket of my shorts is making me think seriously about tossing aside the barbecue tongs and letting the burgers burn while I ravage her against the side of the house. It wouldn’t be the first time. “Thanks for doing this,” she says as she squeezes my ass. “I wasn’t sure how the whole family thing was going to gel.” “Seems to be gelling pretty well to me.” “It does, doesn’t it?” She looks around to take in the expansive lawn, the sparkling turquoise pool, the rows of pink and purple petunias planted several weeks ago when Missy and Lisa snuck in to give my yard “a homey touch.” It is homey, though. It’s not the sort of home I even imagined for myself. It’s better. I look down at Cassie and grin. “I think we’ve done pretty well here.” She tucks a strand of hair behind one ear and smiles back at me. “Not too shabby at all. You’re pretty okay for a frivolous sex toy.” “Same to you.” I grin and check the burgers one last time. “I love you, Cass. So damn much.” For a guy who swore he’d never say that to anyone besides his sister, I’ve gotten pretty good at it lately. From the way Cassie beams at me, I can tell she agrees. “I love you, too.” She stands on tiptoe to plant a kiss on my temple. “Now give me a burger.”
“I’ll give it to you, all right.” I scoop one off the grill and slide it onto the toasted bun she hands me. “I’ll give it to you any way you want it.” Cassie laughs and kisses me again, this time on the lips. “Nothing like a man who’s generous with the meat.”
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Acknowledgments Much love and thanks to my critique partners and beta readers who got an extra dose of smut with this one. I’m especially grateful to Linda Grimes and Kait Nolan for the fast turnarounds and spot-on feedback, and am ever-indebted to Cynthia Reese, Larie Borden, Minta Powelson, and Larie Borden for continuing to make me a better writer. Thanks also to Eric Powelson for the sexy computer lingo. Huge thank yous to my agency-sistah, Lauren Blakely, for the endless support, encouragement, and hand-holding. I’m also indebted to all the loyal bloggers and readers who’ve posted reviews or shared my books with friends and family. I couldn’t do this without you! I’m super thankful to Liz Pelletier of Entangled Publishing for all the extra editorial work on this book, and for seeing so much potential in Simon and Cassie’s story. Big thanks to the rest of the Entangled team as well, including Kaitlyn Osborn, Jessica Turner, Melanie Smith, Heather Riccio, Curtis Svehlak, and anyone else I might have inadvertently forgotten here. Love you guys! As always, I’m eternally grateful to Michelle Wolfson of Wolfson Literary Agency for being my most enthusiastic cheerleader, advocate, and business partner. Oodles of hugs and kisses to my family, Dixie and David Fenske, Carlie and Aaron “Russ” Fenske, and to my fabulous stepkids, Cedar and Violet. You guys are my rock stars! And thank you to Craig Zagurski for never batting an eyelash when I say things like, “I need to go to a vegan strip club to research this scene.” I know being married to a romance author isn’t all kitchen counter sex and four-dollar motorboats, so thanks for handling the less-than-sexy aspects of my career with love, patience, and tolerance. Love you, babe!
About the Author Tawna Fenske traveled a career path that took her from newspaper reporter to English teacher in Venezuela to marketing geek to PR manager for her city’s tourism bureau. An avid globetrotter and social media fiend, Tawna is the author of the popular blog, Don’t Pet Me, I’m Writing, and a member of Romance Writers of America. She lives with her husband in Bend, Oregon, where she’ll invent any excuse to hike, bike, snowshoe, float the river, or sip wine on her back deck. She’s published several romantic comedies with Sourcebooks, including Making Waves, which was nominated for contemporary romance of the year by RT Book Reviews. She also writes heartwarming series books for Entangled Publishing, and tender, funny romances for Montlake Publishing. Tawna’s quirky brand of comedy and romance has won praises from Kirkus Reviews, which noted, “Up-and-coming romance author Fenske sets up impeccable internal and external conflict and sizzling sexual tension for a poignant love story between two engaging characters, then infuses it with witty dialogue and lively humor. An appealing blend of lighthearted fun and emotional tenderness.”
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