He skated his fingers along her spine, sending a delicious frisson of electricity dancing across her flesh. Heat flooded her, her desire pooling between her legs, drenching her red-lace panties. Greedy for more, she grabbed his wrist, forced his hand?—
“Oof, sorry, babe, I gotta stop him right here.” I slamShout for Usclosed. “After the shit day I had, I’m in no mood to read about you and what’s his name doing the sexy time.”
Digging my hand into a gigantic bowl of popcorn (I may or may not have added a ton of chocolate chips), I toss more than a comfortable handful in my mouth. I’m trying not to choke to death as I chew,ruminating about the fictional man I built on the silly book boyfriend app.
I have officially sunk to a whole new depth of pathetic.
No, seriously.
In my defense, Jason and I hadn’t had sex in…let me do a quick tally…
About a year and three months prior to the divorce. I moved out exactly fourteen months ago. My vagina probably has cobwebs by now. In fact, fantasizing about a cartoon man is the least of my sexual problems. I bet it’d take a crowbar and a jug of lube to crank open this dusty canal.
What a catch, aren’t I? Chilling on the couch in my favorite black yoga pants and a humongous yellow T-shirt with a salsa stain. With legs outstretched on the coffee table, I have Taylor Swift playing on Spotify. Two songs ago, I belted out “Willow” as if Taylor needed my help with vocals.
Newsflash, she didn’t.
Corn kernels stuck in my teeth, I peel myself off the cushion and carry the bowl toward the kitchen, passing the massive bookcase that was a bitch and a half to build by myself. But I am woman, hear me curse like a mighty sailor (or however the saying goes) while I assembled that beast. It dominates an entire wall, floor to ceiling, and is lit with pink LED lights. My favorite books are on display, showcased by artfully arranged accent decor. It’s the focal point of my home, and while the house isn’t large, it’s mine, and I’m damn proud of it.
Could I have bought a bigger house like those fancy ones across town? Sure. I could have even fought harder with Gram to get her out of the shack and into something a bit…upgraded. But in the end, I was happy with my cute, two-story contemporary off Main Street, and she was better off staying where she was.
Where the memory of her daughter is strong.
Between my divorce settlement and The Scorched Page, I do okay. And sure, I still live like I’m the little girl who ate pasta and butter for dinner four nights a week and hot dogs the other three because they’re cheap and easy meals, and Gram was never the same since the accident that killed my parents. But I’m not hurting for money anymore, and now that my grandmother has arthritis in almost every joint in her frail body, I do what I can to help her, but she’s stubborn as the day is long. She stays holed up in the shack by St. Crowe Lake, the one that’s getting more difficult for me to upkeep by the day.
The more repairs we make, the more issues we need to repair.
It’s an endless cycle, a money pit. But Millicent Benson was born in the home, and by God, she’s determined to die in it.
No thanks. I prefer my little white house on Anne Avenue, with its spacious, white kitchen. The huge center island with its prep sink sold me on the place. I added three cushioned bar stools, where I eat most of my meals. I haven’t used the dining room once since I’ve been here, with the lonely, six-seater, blackened-oak table the perfect spot for my mail before I sort it. But I had a hell of a good time picking out the furniture. I love the rustic pieces against white walls and espresso wood floors.
I got so used to adapting to Jason’s style—cold and modern, hard lines—that I never realized I’m the opposite. Fluffy blankets, pinks, and everything girlie. Warmth. Inviting.
After depositing the bowl in the sink, I grab a glass of water before leaning against the cabinet. “I’m screwed,” I say aloud. “Who the hell wants a twenty-eight-year-old divorced bookworm who fantasizes about fiction men?”
The only answer I get is the rain hitting the roof.
“Exactly!” I punctuate the word by holding up my glass. “No one.”
I take a large gulp of water, my imagination running wild over Rhys Ravenstone. The app makers picked the perfect, over-the-top name for an antihero. And I sure had fun building my idea of the perfect man.
Six-five.
Artfully disheveled hair that’s so dark it appears black.
Ebony eyes that are sharp enough to cut a man right to his soul.
Tattooed flesh stretched taut over thick cords of muscle.
Pierced penis, because why the hell not?
And a scar that cuts across his left?—
“The hell?”
No, like, for real. It’s midnight, and a nasty storm rolled down from the Appalachians. There’s no reason on earth someone should be ringing my bell this time of night, especially since I don’t have a single friend other than Brooklyn Ross. And she would never just show up at my house, not when a text would do instead. As for my family. It’s only Gram and me…
Gram.
