Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 103102 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 516(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 344(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103102 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 516(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 344(@300wpm)
“And that was it, the end?”
“I was leaving anyway.”
“To come here?”
I nod.
“Why did you leave?” she asks. “You have a job in New York.”
“I can work remote.”
“Still. You don’t have a reason to be in California.”
“I have meetings in Los Angeles. We’re opening a new office.”
“Then why aren’t you staying in LA with your sister? Why are you staying here, in Orange County? And don’t say it’s because you’re fated to be with Lexi, because we both know that isn’t it.”
She’s right. I didn’t come here for Lexi. I didn’t expect to see Lexi, much less feel my high school crush rushing back to me when I did.
I came here for another woman.
Grandma.
Her cancer is back.
Of course, Ida Beau isn’t interested in anyone’s opinion on how she should pursue treatment.
I’m sworn to silence.
Maybe it is fate. That’s what I would have said, in any other situation.
With Grandma being sick?
If that’s fate, I don’t accept it.
I won’t.
…
We trade stories about exes. Funny stories, too. But they don’t have the gravity to pull my thoughts to the moment.
There’s too much in my head.
Deanna is gorgeous here, under the strange purple lights, the steady electronic beat punctuating her sentences.
The story about an ex who planned a romantic picnic at the beach, only to stare at a babe on a surfboard the entire time.
The other ex who attempted a romantic weekend at Big Bear, as a surprise. Without the warning to take extra motion sickness medicine, Deanna spent the entire drive ill and threw up on his expensive seats.
The time Stephan’s parents called right as she slipped into her leather catsuit.
I’m not proud that the mental image of Deanna in skintight leather is what finally grabs my attention, but I am a man. I feel the same base impulses as other men. And this one is strong enough I want to savor it. To enjoy a million hours of imagination. A thousand of the real thing.
Deanna Huntington, in some fancy hotel room, unzipping her catsuit, climbing onto the bed, riding someone like a stallion.
She notices the light in my eyes, tilts her head to one side, studies me carefully.
This time, she’s not looking through me. She’s looking at me like she’s imagining what she wants to do with me.
“What’s that look?” She swallows the last drop of liquor. “You’re thinking something.”
Too many things. “I’m always thinking something. The same as you.”
“Not the same as me.”
“No?”
“You think sweet, romantic things.”
Not always.
“I think of devious things,” she says.
“Catsuits and whips?”
She smiles. “Algorithms and spreadsheets.”
“Really? You’re thinking about spreadsheets right now?”
“Yes. Which is why we need to dance. Well, I have to dance.” She slides out of the booth and offers her hand. “A promise I made to my mom. You can join or not.”
Who the hell could resist a promise to a dead mother? She’s too good at this. I follow her, take her hand, join her on the dance floor.
The club is a little more crowded now. A dozen singles dancing alone. A hot and heavy couple in schoolgirl outfits, grinding like they’re, well, still in high school. A man and woman in all black, making out like there’s no tomorrow.
And the two of us.
Deanna shifts into dance position immediately.
I fall into it, too. Grandma wanted me to belong in this world. She sent me to lessons. Just in case.
“Or maybe like this. Close position.” She places her hands on my waist. At first, her grip is soft. Tentative. Then she sinks into it.
She looks through me.
I need the intensity. It’s the only thing that pushes the storm clouds from my head.
She curls her fingers into the cotton fabric of my T-shirt.
I bring my hands to her hips and pull her body into mine. Her chest against my chest, her hips against my hips, her legs around mine.
She’s offset. That’s the dance description. A proper position. One where we can’t align the parts desperate to align.
For all her sharpness, Deanna is soft against me. The slim curves of her body, the slick fabric of her dress, and something deeper, some way of sinking into me.
She feels good.
When was the last time someone felt this good?
My hands dig into her hips.
We shift in time with the music, pressed together, so close to where we’re supposed to be, but so far, too.
One song flows into the next. Then the next. With the electric beat, it’s hard to tell.
She breaks our touch and turns around, so she’s pressed all the way against me, her back against my chest, her ass against my pelvis.
My hands go to her hips reflexively.
Blood rushes south.
Conscious thought flees my brain.
My body takes over. And my body isn’t concerned with ideas of love and commitment and destiny. My body wants release, any release.
And closeness. Any closeness.
Even with the wrong person. Even with the worst person.