Total pages in book: 69
Estimated words: 65913 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 330(@200wpm)___ 264(@250wpm)___ 220(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 65913 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 330(@200wpm)___ 264(@250wpm)___ 220(@300wpm)
Or cook for her, then watch a good flick.
I mean, I think those are all the standard post-sex activities. But I’m a dog person, and so’s Veronica.
I’m in the bathroom after cleaning up when I look down to see StudMuffin staring at me ominously. Tick tock. I tug on my shirt. His big brown eyes are imploring. Oh man, I know that look. I zip up my shorts and drag a hand through my hair, calling to Veronica in the bedroom where she’s getting dressed. “Sunshine, you want me to take the dog out?”
She pops her head out the door, tugging her sundress over a pair of fresh undies as she surveys the scene. “I’ll go too.” Then her brow knits. “What about Trudy? Want to get her?”
My heart gives a kick. “Let’s walk the beasts. Meet you outside in two minutes,” I say, then take off to get my girl next door.
One hundred twenty seconds later, Veronica pushes open the front door of her place and bounds down the steps with her little blond monster. After the dogs give each other a quick hello, we walk them down the block on a summer evening.
Veronica hums happily, and that’s a damn good sign. I always want to make a woman happy, but it’s best to ask “was it good for you” in some form or another.
“I have another question—”
We each gesture awkwardly to the other. “Go ahead,” I say as the dogs stop at a tree and do their business.
“You go first.” She sounds a little hesitant. Maybe she needs me to be the one to dive into a postmortem. I get that.
I inhale, but when the question forms in my head—was that good for you—it seems callous, something a dude might say to a hookup right before he’s out the door with a dismissive see you around, already knowing he’ll ghost her.
The thing is—I will see Veronica around. Dating might suck more than subways, but I don’t want to make Veronica feel like a hookup.
Clearing my throat, I start over as we resume our pace. “So, if memory serves, we’ve got soap and grammar as two things we both love,” I begin. “Have we found a third?”
Smirking, she steals a glance at me as we turn onto Hudson Street. “Milo, are you trying to get me to admit I, too, love sex?”
I gasp in exaggerated surprise. “Me? Never.”
“Good. I didn’t think that was your style, to fish for a compliment,” she says.
God, she’s adorable, thoroughly and completely.
But . . .
Was I fishing for a compliment? Hell, I fucking was. Screw the games. I turn to meet her gaze and cliff-dive into the dangerous waters of opening my heart. “You’re incredible. Sleeping with you was amazing. I hope you liked it half as much as I did,” I tell her as we slow our pace in front of a trendy bar serving designer cocktails.
With the dog leash curled tight in her hand, she leans in close, dusts a kiss along my jaw, rubbing her face against my beard. “I did love it,” she says, no teasing, no sarcasm. “I want it again.”
“Me too.” I kiss her, then tip my forehead to the bar. “Get a drink with me. They have good tapas too.”
She narrows her eyes. “Are you trying to get out of making me a sandwich?”
I drape an arm around her shoulders. “Only because I want to sit outside on a summer night with you.”
I don’t say I want to have a date with you. She’s a smart woman. She can figure it out.
Ten minutes later, we’re drinking mojitos and noshing on quesadillas at an outdoor table, dogs at our feet.
She holds up a pepper quesadilla. “If you think about it, this is really a tortilla sandwich.”
“Does it count, then, toward the price of admission?” I ask, taking a bite of another one.
“It seems you’ve fulfilled your paper airplane promise,” she says.
I smile, enjoying New York under a hot summer night sky with the virgin next door who’s not a virgin anymore. That deepens my smile, but reminds me she’d wanted to ask me something too. “We never got back to your question earlier?”
She looks me square in the eyes. “When did you figure it out? That you’re Mister Sexy Pants?”
I’m happy to share. I think she’ll appreciate the story. “I told some friends about you over the weekend when we were playing Skee-Ball. One of them happens to read your column, and since I mentioned our dog-meets-bike-meets-your-devil-butt incident, he figured out I was the guy in your columns.”
Her eyes flicker with wonder, perhaps. “One of your friends reads The Virgin Club?”
“He said it’s required reading for dudes who like chicks,” I say.
“That’s awesome. I didn’t know I had many male readers,” she says. She takes a drink, her expression still one of delight. That makes me happy—that I gave her that little boost simply by letting her know she has a fan.