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)
A few minutes later, we’re naked and breathless. She’s under me, legs wrapped tightly around me, her fingers gripping my ass.
She holds on tight as I swivel my hips.
A gorgeous shudder moves down her body as I quicken the pace. Her hands slide up my back, her fingers playing with my hair.
I meet her eyes. Those green irises are so full of passion, lust and, a fiery new thing—true emotion.
And I know, as the pleasure tips over in me, that I’m so close to losing my heart.
Or maybe I already have.
And after a few more minutes, the world winks off, and we come together.
A little later, I’m yawning, ready to conk out, when I spot a paperback on her nightstand. I can’t make out the cover, but that’s not the point. “What if you wrote your columns into a book? I bet someone would publish that,” I ask in the dark, feeling a little brilliant. I’ve been wanting to find a solution for her work problems—something that suits her shiny, sexy mind.
She ruffles my hair. “Maybe, but I don’t know if that’s a living. Though I’m pretty sure I’ll need to write about you plucking my petal soon in my column. Do you mind, Mister Sexy Pants?”
I yawn again, shaking my head. “Hell no. I want all your readers to know I’m the one who got you,” I say.
I do want to be the one to keep her. The only one. And that wish is so much trouble for my damaged heart.
26
Balcony Gardener
Veronica
* * *
Last night with Milo was the medicine I needed. He tapped my funny bone and my ass.
But more than that—the man lifted my spirits.
Now, as I get dressed in the morning, with Milo finishing his coffee in the kitchen after taking the early dog-walking shift, I feel refreshed. Ready to tackle the terrifying unknown of the big J-O-B search.
Wallowing is no longer an option, even as all of kid-lit slams its doors on me. I won’t mourn. I will move on.
Because I’ve learned that taking charge rocks. In this last week with Milo, I’ve taken charge of my pleasure, and I’ve reaped the rewards.
I’ll lady-boss my career too.
With the morning sun illuminating my closet, I spot my infamous red polka-dot skirt, and it’s calling my name. I wore this the afternoon Milo and I nearly crashed into each other. That day upended my life and sent me down the path to his shop. I didn’t think I’d like selling flowers so much. But turns out, I’m damn good at chatting with customers, recommending the right blooms, then coming up with fun marketing slogans.
Am I ready to be the bawdy florist? Or maybe something similar? While I hunt for the next big thing, perhaps I’ll do social media to pay the bills or try my hand at freelance editing.
I picture the pages of the fireman calendar in my kitchen flipping by in a blur. My job ends in less than six weeks. But since Milo is going out of town today, I’ll devote all of tonight and tomorrow to the search. I tug on the skirt, grab my skull earrings from the top of the bureau, and pop them in.
I leave my bedroom and whoa.
Milo’s in my kitchen, twisting a tiny tool thingamajig into a loose hinge on a cabinet. His pale-yellow shirt rides up, displaying a sliver of his flat stomach.
I hum low in my throat as I come into the room. “Some women fantasize about waking up to find a hot man making her pancakes and bacon. I fantasize about walking in on a hot guy working his tools.”
“Better not be just any hot guy,” he tosses out.
“Oh, it’s definitely you,” I say.
He cranes his neck, then flashes a big, sexy smile. “I know, sunshine. Like I said, I memorized all your columns, including the one where you wanted me to fix a broken pipe,” he says, making me warm and fuzzy. “Maybe that’s why I carry a Leatherman in my pocket.”
“And all this time I just thought you were happy to see me.”
He laughs. “We’re both happy to see you.”
He returns to the fix-it job, and I return to ogling. What a view. What a man.
My career might be a mystery novel, but my dating life doesn’t need a detective. If I had to pen a Virgin Club column today, I’d say find the person who fixes your broken cabinet, kisses your tears, and lifts your spirits. Also, ideally, the one who fucks you just the way you want.
As I drink him in, my heart writes the next sentence. And then keep him.
Perhaps, it’s time to take charge of my heart too. Sure, there’s that little trouble of Milo’s dating hiatus. But we don’t have to dive in over our heads. Would he be willing to wade into the shallow end with me?