Me: I think I’ve forgotten how to have sex.
The dots started to flash almost straight away.
Sophie: It’s like riding a bike. You don’t forget. Once you start again, your body remembers what to do.
Me: But I don’t think I’ve had really good sex before. What if it’s me? What if I can’t have really good sex because I’m not meant to be able to? I’m meant to just be a chef and that’s it.
Sophie: You realise you’re talking absolute shit? I’m assuming that you got friendly with Jaunty Jack last night?
Me: Kind of. Second base.
Sophie: You might need to give him a nudge that you’re interested in where tab A goes.
Me: Possibly. But not this morning. Meeting with ex-husband number one about Tipsy Toad.
Sophie: My advice, buy him out and do it yourself. Speaking from experience.
She was. Her ex-husband had been the main investor in her spa chain when she’d first started out. They were still on good terms, but she’d bought his shares as soon as she could.
I needed to think about it. I could afford to, but I wasn’t sure how I felt about it given that he took a lot of pleasure in being a part owner. I wasn’t even sure that he’d want to sell them.
The bathroom door cranked open and Jack emerged, his hair damp, towel slung around his waist as I’d hoped. Instead of heading to the spare bedroom, he made his way into the kitchen. I struggled to keep my eyes off him, drops of water still glistening on his skin, making me want to lick them off to quench my thirst.
“That coffee smells good.”
I started to pour him a cup, wondering what the hell I said, how I approached why we didn’t go further last night. And make a hint that I needed him to make a move.
“About last night.”
His grin was devious. “Our date.”
I rolled my eyes. “Okay. It was a date. But after, when we were here…” Words stuck in my throat like over-cooked rice.
“And you were getting yourself a good feel?” He stood next to me, both hands on the kitchen worktop, towel perilously low to revealing the goods.
“I could say exactly the same about you…”
“Not denying it. Shall I get us to the bit where we both went to bed frustrated and probably both rubbed one out?”
I don’t know if it was his words or the fact that I was pretty sure that towel was hanging lower, but I felt my body begin to heat up. And it wasn’t the coffee.
“Are you confessing you used me as spank bank material?”
“Are you telling me you didn’t use me as your inspiration? I’ll be hurt if those little moans I heard weren’t because of me.”
I felt the urge to rip the towel away and whip him with it but I had no idea how he would react or what to do after. I cursed my inexperience and previous poor choice in men, as well as the nerves that were bees in my stomach.
“You didn’t hear anything!” He had. I was lying.
“I heard plenty. Didn’t last very long myself when I figured out what you were doing. Anyway, you were saying…”
“Why didn’t we…” I ran two restaurants, had a Michelin star, had stood in court to testify against my ex-husband and I was nervous talking about sex.
“Why didn’t we go any further? I guess I’m worried about a couple of things and we should probably talk first.” His hands left the counter and he moved behind me, wrapping his arms around me from behind.
It would be easier to talk with him touching me rather than having to look at him and have him see my embarrassment.
“It’s been more than five years since I had sex. I’m scared I don’t know what to do.”
