My tummy flutters at his dirty mouth. I nod, no air left in my lungs to form words.
We stand there for a beat longer, and I try not to let my eyes drop to his mouth. Two years of friendship and my expectant heart still goes into overdrive whenever we’re within kissing distance.
He bites his bottom lip to hold in his grin and walks away backward. “Answer your phone tonight.”
I should refuse, but I’m a masochist, my body already thrumming with anticipation. “Why?”
He shakes his head and turns to jog away. “Just answer it.”
“Olly,” I call out before I can stop myself.
He spins around. “Yeah?”
“Did he?” I ask, remembering our phone call.
He winks. “Every fuckin’ drop.”
CHAPTER TWO
Lacey
It’s 9 p.m., and Olly still hasn’t called.
I lie in bed staring at the ceiling, an open document screen blaring harsh white light into my dimly lit room. Whatever Olly’s planning, he isn’t going to change my mind; I need to switch genres.
My phone screen lights up a moment later.
Excitement surges in my belly, my body springing into action as I clamber toward my bedside table and snatch my phone.
How’s the women’s fiction going?
My brows pull together, and my lips turn down. Olly wanted me to sit by my phone all night to ask how my writing was going? I flop back onto the bed, the downy comforter puffing around me as disappointment deflates the bubble of anticipation I pretended I wasn’t floating in all night.You are hopeless, Lacey.
I snap a photo of the blank document on my laptop and press send.
Bubbles appear before his reply.
Olly: I told you. Changing genres isn’t a solution.
No, it’s a necessity.
Bubbles appear again, Olly’s fingers typing quicker than my thoughts can process.
Olly: New inspiration?
Is he asking if I’ve found new inspiration, or is he offering some?
This is my cue to pull away, reinforce my career’s new direction, and say goodnight.
My screen flashes with his next message before I can reply.
I squint and peer closer at the screen. A dark, grainy photo shows a guy on his knees with his lips wrapped around a… “Oh my gosh.”
Heat pools in my belly before morphing into a kaleidoscope of butterflies swarming down low. I drop the phone and clap my hands on both cheeks. Did Olly just send me porn?
He’s divulged raunchy tales painting vivid pictures in my head, but he’s never sent visual accompaniments.
Rolling onto my side, I pick up my phone, my hand trembling as I scan the photo. The angle is from above, a zipper peeled open like wrapping paper around a… yep, that’s definitely a penis.
