Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 89238 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 446(@200wpm)___ 357(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89238 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 446(@200wpm)___ 357(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Kenji tosses a napkin at her. “Shut up. We all know you’re getting magic dick every night. You’re not allowed to talk to those of us who aren’t getting it.”
“Well, if you ever talked to that guy who helps out at Samira’s shop you might have a better chance.”
He lifts a stop-sign hand. “He’s too cute. I just can’t.”
“You should though. You’ve had a crush on her employee forever,” I add.
“Don’t remind me. He came in here the other day with his cute blond hair, and his cute white teeth, and his cute freckles, and I was like…hiiiii, help has I can you?”
“So you’re definitely not getting magic dick,” Fable says dryly.
“I cock-block myself,” Kenji says.
Fable points to Rachel. “Then you need to hold your peace if you’re getting magic dicked down every night.”
Happily—like a woman getting it good—Rachel mimes zipping her lips, but Juliet jumps to her defense. “Look, my sister’s right. A man can’t just have one. He needs to know what to do with it.”
I wave my hand. “Semantics.”
“You don’t have sex with semantics,” Fable warns.
Rachel unzips her lips then points at me. “Well, she’s not having sex with semantics or with Gage.”
Kenji wraps an arm around me. “And she won’t. Because we can’t have hot mama getting distracted by daddy’s magic dick. Mama needs to make this store soar,” he says, finishing the last word like he’s singing in a musical, but I hear the desperation we both feel in his voice.
Even if Felix is sooo patriarchal, he’s not wrong. Romance is more likely to go wrong than right. I certainly don’t have a track record of successful relationships. I’ve had my heart broken more than once. I let men in easily. Too easily. Where are those ex-boyfriends now? Gone from my life. But Gage will decidedly be in my life for the next three months, and I don’t want to go to the pop-up every weekend to see the guy who hurt me. Which is what would happen if I let him further into my heart. Or into my panties again. Resolved, I add, “Exactly. Here’s to my no-fuck fiancé-ship,” I say, ready to charge ahead. “I’m adaptable. I’m flexible. It’s only three months. It’ll be fine. And you know what? Actually, it’ll be fun.”
“Fun?” Rachel asks, her tone dubious.
“He’s been a single dad pretty much his daughter’s entire life. So it’ll be educational. I can learn from him. I can grow as a parent. It’ll be useful.”
My friends all snicker at once. “That’s quite a spin job,” Rachel says. “You went from him having a major magic dick to you learning how to be a good mom.”
I dig my heels in. “A girl’s gotta try.”
Fable grabs another chocolate then holds it up high. “By the way, these chocolates taste like sex, so good luck not thinking about it with him.”
Later that day when I head to meet Gage at the pop-up, I do my best not to think about his magic dick.
How hard can it be? I didn’t even get to see it.
18
FAKE FIANCÉ BENEFIT
Elodie
Repeat after me.
I will not flirt.
I will not say naughty things.
I won’t even think about sex.
A few dozen mental reminders on the walk over and my mind is completely innocent. Yes, Angel Elodie is in the house, turning on the block of The Escape, walking up the steps, crossing the courtyard and smiling.
That neon sign looks so good.
Gage is here, positioning it just so. His shirt rides up, revealing a sliver of his toned, trim abs. My pulse pounds, and I take a moment to savor the view. Sure, I saw him shirtless the night of our date. But that only made me want more.
Now I’m getting a tease again, and the devil is shoving the angel to the back of the line. With his arms stretched up, his ink is in my crosshairs and I can’t look away. I am officially a tattoo girl. I want to touch them. Trace them. Kiss them. “What’s all the ink for?” I ask as I reach him.
With a casual glance back at me, he flashes a smile, then glances down at his arm as if he’s just noticed the artwork climbing from his wrist up his forearm, a lotus in the center. “All sorts of things,” he says, a little playful. He didn’t get the do not flirt memo, or perhaps he’s tossed it in the trash can.
After checking the sign’s secure, he lowers his arms, then points to the fine black linework of the lotus on his right forearm. “This one is for—”
“Change!”
The bright, soprano voice comes out of nowhere. I whip my head in the direction of a girl with twin brown braids and bright green eyes heading toward us. “Like when bad things happen and it reminds you that you can be stronger,” the girl adds coming from the direction of the lobby and probably the restrooms.