The very thought of that woman being me has my nipples tight and my pussy uncomfortably damp. Was that what they were suggesting? It certainly sounded that way.
I text Frannie.
Are you home or at work?
Home. What’s up?
Good. I need emergency girl time.
I’ll run out for wine.
I don’t need any more wine. This calls for a clear head.
Well. As clear as it’s going to get when I’ve had three glasses of wine and two hot men hitting on me. Because I think that’s what they were doing. It certainly seemed that way.
Then there’s Grayson Ross.
That man.
Fuck.
I wave my hand in front of my face, which is blazing hot.
I don’t understand him. Was he flirting with me? Or does he genuinely believe that I’ve never seen a grown man masturbating?
It’s been a minute, but I am no stranger to the naked male form—thank you very much.
My car pulls up and I jump in, glancing up at the apartment windows. I don’t know what I’m expecting to see. It’s not like any of the three men will be staring down, watching me leave with an expression of longing or anything.
The driver is chatty and I’m struggling to hold a conversation with him. Fortunately, it’s a short five-minute drive to Fiona and Frannie’s quintessential Carolina beach cottage.
I love this house. I thank the driver and hop out, instantly feeling less jittery and strange. The house is pink with white trim and a yellow door and has a deep front porch with four rockers on it. It looks worthy of two female pastry chefs.
Fiona has a habit of leaving the front door unlocked, so I’m able to go right in without digging for my keys. It drives Frannie crazy because she is definitely the more cautious of the two. She can fret about anything, whereas Fiona is willing to walk a little more on the wild side. Their triplet, Finley, is in law school and she loves live bands and drinks straight whiskey.
Most people who meet Fiona and Frannie have a hard time telling them apart, but I’ve known them for so long it seems weird to me that anyone gets confused. They have different expressions and subtle variations in their hand gestures.
Fiona is in the living room, feet up on the coffee table. Frannie is in the kitchen, making popcorn. She has an open lager can on the counter.
“Hey,” I say, flopping down onto the chair opposite Fiona.
“Hi!” Frannie calls out. “What is going on? Tell us everything.”
“Did you fuck Grayson Ross yet?” Fiona asks, her eyebrows rising up and down. She shoots me a gleeful grin.
“What? No.” Though that doesn’t mean I haven’t considered it. “I walked in on him naked. Jacking off.”
A bowl rattles in the kitchen. “What?” they both say simultaneously.
“How did that happen?” Frannie demands, juggling the popcorn bowl and her beer and coming over to the couch.
They’re both in shorts and easy tank tops.
The cottage is small, but light and airy, with big comfy furniture that allows you to sink deep down into. The kitchen cabinets are soft pink and all the accent decor is shades of pink as well. They like to refer to the house as the pink palace. It suits them and it’s very homey and comforting.
“I couldn’t find the formula, so I went into his bedroom—the door was open, by the way—to ask him and he was just standing naked in front of the mirror stroking himself.” I add an unnecessary hand gesture, but what can I say? I’m flustered.
Fiona snorts. “Damn. Did he stop?”
