She’d selected the Cozy Clove specifically for this “No Screen Time” policy—insurance that she wouldn’t waste the evening procrastinating on dating apps, sucked into an endless barrage of dudes flexing in sweaty postworkout bathroom selfies or posing with trout.
What was the psyche behind that particular phenomenon? Margot nibbled on the side of her pencil. A metaphor for being a “good catch”?
“Have you ever orgasmed more than once in a single session?”
For the past half hour, Margot had unwillingly eavesdropped on everything from Bangs’s and Poncho’s predictions for the nextGame of Thronesseason to the pros and cons of going Paleo. Now it appeared she’d been granted a front-row seat for an online sex quiz.
Whoop-de-doo.
She glared back at her workbook, and the sentence that she’d read at least four times:Research the market thoroughly.
The girls ignored her heavy sigh.
Margot didn’t take pleasure in being a killjoy. After all, it wasn’t like she didn’t have opinions about their topics of interest. If playing the Westeros version of Fuck, Marry, Kill, her choices would be Jon Snow, Tyrion and the Kingslayer in that order (she’d never forgive Jaime Lannister for shoving Bran out that tower window). As for going Paleo, she refused to entertain any diet that banned her beloved IPA, a beer that was bitter and bold. Not unlike herself.
But this tea shop time was too important to squander. She’d called in a favor at work to get it, begging her fellow yoga teacher, Dusk, to cover her Intermediate Vinyasa class at Nirvana Yoga Studio. Her big plan had been to sip fancy tea while fleshing out her meditation business idea, a “treat yo self” Valentine’s Day present.
This didn’t have to be National Single Awareness Day. She could flip the narrative and celebrate it as an empowering reminder to focus on herself after ending her last disastrous relationship three months ago. And hey, even better, tomorrow chocolate would be fifty percent off!
“Next question,” Bangs chirped. “Do you prefer to be the chased or do the chasing?”
“Chased, without a doubt.”
Margot cast a beseeching glance toward the red-haired, dreadlocked barista nodding off on a stool behind the counter. Looked like no rescue was forthcoming from that quarter. She still took the time to check him out, an old habit.Hmmmm.Normally dreadlocks elevated sexy to a whole new level, but not in this case. He wasn’t bad-looking, but she had a long-standing aversion to gingers.
She flicked back to the chapter on market need, stuffing her fingers in her ears to drown out the girls’ chatter.
Her idea was to create a gym, but instead of working out your body, Sanctuary would be a place to work out the mind—with calm, thoughtfully designed spaces designated for group meditation classes, individual practice, art therapy, sand play and even flower arranging. She’d sell monthly memberships and daily drop-in passes. Given the hectic—often worrying—state of the world, people craved places to recenter and recharge, especially in her target market of Boulder—
“These questions are frigging naughty!”
Looked like her fingers couldn’t cancel out Poncho’s ability to state the obvious.
On and on they went:
No to sexting.
Yes to owning a thong.
No to oral—both giving and receiving.
Margot choked on her Matcha green tea. Wait a second. Poncho was sexually active and yet didn’t get oral? What kind of national tragedy did she endure between the sheets? Good Lord, even Stefan, Margot’s douche-mcgouche ex, hadn’t beenthatbad. And he was a two-pump chump.
“How many vibrators do you own?” Bangs purred in a husky stage whisper.
“Ew! None!”
“You paddle your own canoe?”
A sound escaped Margot’s lips, not unlike a whale singing its death song. Paddle. Your. Own. Canoe? Get outta here.Masturbation. Clit. Vagina.These were not difficult words to master.
“Keep your voice down, bitch.” Poncho cracked up. “Derek keeps me satisfied.”
Margot doodled a stick figure impersonating Edvard Munch’sTheScreamin the margins. It took every last shred of her willpower not to grab Poncho by the shoulders and order her to ovary-up, and take responsibility for her own sexual pleasure. Of course Derek needed to work at being a good lover. But at the end of the day, all women needed the ability to give themselves toe-curling, stutter-inducing, off-the-Richter scale, orgasmic ecstasy.
“This is going off-script, but out of curiosity... what’s your number?” Bangs queried.
Poncho’s thin lips flattened further. “Number?”
