Total pages in book: 62
Estimated words: 60931 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 305(@200wpm)___ 244(@250wpm)___ 203(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 60931 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 305(@200wpm)___ 244(@250wpm)___ 203(@300wpm)
“Um …” I clear my throat and tear my gaze from Mr. Sex. “Let’s start with one word that describes your feelings about chapters nine through sixteen. I’ll go first. Riveting.” I risk a glance at Eric, but he’s focused on his plate of snacks.
The one-word descriptions follow mine: provocative, stimulating, sensual, arousing, stirring, alluring …
My heart swells as so many accurate and positive words fall from their mouths. When it’s Eric’s turn, I hold my breath. I want him to be honest, but I fear his honesty could expose us to everyone. Fire fills my cheeks the second I hear his voice. With one sexual description, I could melt into a puddle.
“Eric?” Freya prompts him.
He glances up, chewing slowly, eyes wide, and gaze shifting to me as he swallows. “Um … do you want me to participate or just listen?”
I smile and bat my eyelashes at him. “Participate, of course.”
A tiny crease forms along the bridge of his nose, and his eyes narrow a fraction. It’s … weird.
“Just say it. There’s no right or wrong.” Freya verbally nudges him again.
Well … I wouldn’t go so far as to say there’s no right or wrong.
“Okay, um …” He tips his chin and focuses on his wine glass as he swirls it. “Self-indulgent.”
No one responds. Not that they need to respond. The one-word impressions don’t require responses or explanations. They’re just a great way to set the tone for the rest of the discussion. Or they were a great way to set the tone.
“Okay … so … what’s the next question on your list?” Freya snags my book and the sticky notes with questions stuck to the cover.
“The characters are self-indulgent? Like emotionally or sexually? Or is the writing self-indulgent?” I ask.
Eric dips a baby carrot in dressing and glances up at me as he pops it into his mouth. “Uh … is one more acceptable to you?”
My jaw drops, and I cough on my reaction between a gasp and an “uh.” I’m … dumbfounded. What is happening?
“Moving on. Do you think the accelerated pace of Jasmine and Andrew’s relationship is based on attraction or fear?” Freya reads my question.
I don’t even hear the other answers. The word self-indulgent rings too loudly in my head. Eric won’t look at me because he’s a coward who just came for the free food and wine, keeping his head bowed and mouth full.
“Breathe …” Freya whispers in my ear. “Get your shit together.”
After draining my entire glass of wine, I find a smile for everyone except Eric.
I ask questions.
I share my thoughts.
I nod politely at everyone’s opinions.
That’s what you do in a book club.
After the final thought is shared and everyone is assigned the last third of the book for next time, I get to work on cleaning up the mess. Eric sticks around to help while keeping a safe distance. It means he’s not one hundred percent stupid, but still a dick.
Even Freya remains quiet, shooting me the occasional cringe as Mr. Helpful refuses to leave.
“I’m going to take the bottles downstairs. Will you be okay?” Freya asks.
I return a slight nod while wiping down the tables.
“So just to be clear … you want me to read the book but not have an opinion that’s not the same as yours? Why didn’t you just say that?”
My back straightens before I whip around to face him. “What was that last week? Were you mocking the book by doing exactly what the characters did in the book?”
“Oh, Anna … I wasn’t mocking anything.” He reaches for my face, and I bat him away.
“So you just liked the scene?”
He furrows his brow. “The scene last week or the one in the book?”
“The book!”
“Well, I like what it inspired.”
“Is that what you thought was self-indulgent?”
He chuckles, shaking his head. “You’re quite … spirited. I have never seen someone get so worked up over fiction. Remind me never to watch a movie with you, like blue if you like red, or choose the wrong topping on a pizza, or…” he slaps his forehead with the heel of his hand “…have an opinion that’s my own.”
“Why? Why play that game last week?”
Parking his hands on his hips, he lifts his gaze to the sky. “I …” He shakes his head. “I honestly didn’t think you would go there with me, and it started as a joke.” He returns his attention to me. “I thought we’d laugh about it. It blew my mind that you not only latched on to my lead … you took it. You wanted to be those characters.”
Crossing my arms and flipping out my hip, I squint at him. “You could have stopped it.”
“I wanted you any way I could get you. I’m not saying the sex scene—and what we reenacted last week—wasn’t hot. It was. It was hot as fuck. You were hot. Not Jasmine. Not Andrew. Who were you having sex with? Me? Or Andrew?”