11
PIPPA
Ingrid leans over my cubicle wall, dangling a brown paper bag.
“Brought you a cherry danish. A little congratulations for your first article! It’s doing numbers.”
“It is? I haven’t checked the stats yet.” I only got to the office a few minutes ago. I had trouble sleeping again last night, and I had to drag myself out of bed this morning.
Ingrid nods. “They’re fantastic. TheBelladonnaforums are buzzing, and it really took off on TikTok. Women are dressing up like Dickface McCrypto and acting out some of his best lines.”
“Oh, I’ve seen those!” Ayoka, one of my officemates, chimes in from behind me. She crosses her arms to do an impression. “‘We have to drink some champers to celebrate, bro!’”
She and Ingrid cackle with laughter.
I share my cramped office with two other writers. Our desks are covered with free beauty samples, print copies of competing magazines, and extra office supplies. None of us are slobs—there’s just no extra storage space available.
Belladonnahas always felt like the scrappy younger sister to the big women’s magazines, a little spikier and moreindependent. What we lack in big, shiny office spaces we make up with quality writing and editorial independence.
I’m lucky to have such a steady job in publishing.Belladonna’s founders were early internet adaptors, and started publishing our articles online long beforeElleandCosmopolitancaught up. We also have a moderated forum for women to discuss and challenge our articles, and we’re encouraged to reply to their comments. I love being part of the online community. I dreamed of working here all through college, and there’s no way overcrowded desks or last-minute article assignments could ruin it for me.
Ingrid sips her jumbo coffee, then launches into a rapid-speed update. “Your article on the stalker is going through edits now, and it’ll be up tomorrow. I want us printing three of these a week leading up to New Years, then we’ll assemble them as a longer piece for the print edition in January. If this keeps up social media steam, we can add in some pictures of the TikTok impressionists and reader reactions. Is the next one ready?”
“I’m drafting it now.” I point to the open document on my computer. “Spoiler—it involves four hours of country music.”
Ingrid chuckles. “Can’t wait. So you must have another date lined up, right?”
I bite my lip. “Er, not yet.”
Obviously, I have to set up another date, but every time I open Keepr to look for another match, I’m suddenly back in the apartment kitchen, Ryan pressing me against the counter and kissing the ever-living hell out of me. It’s like even thinking about another guy brings me back to the last one who touched me.
To be honest, I’ve been reeling from the whole thing. How is the best kiss I’ve had in years with mystepbrother? Every time I think about it, heat rushes to my core as I remember the heated pressure of his lips, the stinging tug of his hand in myhair. Knowing how wrong it was just made the whole thing more erotic. Like the urge to use a stick to play with coals in the fire, even knowing you could get hit by a spark.
I hate how much that damn kiss is affecting me. I could excuse that back when I was fourteen, hormonal and confused and stupid enough to think kissing Ryan was a good idea. By now, though, I should know better than to play with fire.
I was fully expecting Ryan to give me shit for it the next morning. Even though he initiated, hewoulduse the kiss to torture me. I figured he’d tease me and threaten to tell our parents the fucked-up shit I let him do to me. I took an hour to meditate in the morning and steel myself for whatever he might say.
But he didn’t say anything.
I’m pretty sure he’s avoiding me, since we’ve only seen each other for a few brief moments over the past three days. Or maybe I’m avoiding him—I’m not sure. Either way, each time we crossed paths, Ryan didn’t say a word. He’s acting like the whole thing never happened.
Ingrid taps her hand on the edge of my cubicle, her long, burgundy-painted nails clicking against the plastic. “Well, you better get back out there. We need the next draft ASAP. Try to get some juicier details next time. I don’t mean you have to sleep with the guy for work,” she reassures me quickly, seeing my expression. “I just mean that the readers are connecting with the authenticity of the column. They want to know the nitty gritty.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I say dryly. I know what she’s thinking—sex gets clicks. If I did hook up with one of my dates, I’m sure she’d have me put it right in the headline.
“That’s not the only reason I’m here,” Ingrid says. “I know you’re busy with the 12 Dates articles, but I need something grabby for our sex and love column. Do you have time to write another piece?”
Of course. I should have known the cherry danish wasn’t a congratulations—it was a bribe to take on more work. It’s going to take every minute of my free time to squeeze in yet another article, but I’ve never been one to back away from a challenge. Besides, if it gives me an excuse to put off scheduling another date for a day, I’m happy to lean into it.
“I can take it on,” I say. “What are you thinking?”
“I’d like to do something along the lines of exploring taboo fantasies. Any ideas come to mind?”
Stepsibling romance.
My cheeks heat when I realize the first thing I jumped to. It’s not something I’ve ever been into, but obviously the kiss with Ryan has messed up my head in ways I haven’t even begun to fathom.
Obviously, I can’t just admit that to myboss, let alone everyone on the internet. I rack my brain, trying to come up with something titillating, but not totally humiliating.
