Stop making excuses.
Yes, but there’s carpet in the bathroom, linoleum flooring, and the heater smells like a swamp. Besides, he hasn’t even kissed you.
I swallowed. Parker slowly leaned over me. The heat from his body radiated through me, sending a jolt of desire straight through me.
“Can I come in?” he asked softly.
I gulped. I hadn’t cleaned. There was probably dirty underwear on the floor. I shook my head wordlessly.
He regarded me. “I’ll see you at work on Monday.”
* * *
“I didn’t expectto see you here,” Erika said too early the next morning. “You were supposed to be experiencing the awkward morning after with Milton.”
I yawned. “Ugh.”
“Wait, wait,” Erika said, holding up a hand. “Jasmine is going to want to hear this. We’re about to have an intervention for you.”
“I can’t.” I flopped back down on the bed. A part of me wondered, why hadn’t I invited Parker in? Guys probably didn’t care about the state of a girl’s apartment. But then, he was a billionaire and had all that money, a nice car, and an even nicer house. Maybe he would think less of me? At the very least, I shouldn’t sleep with my boss.
“Up!” Erika commanded. I rolled over.
“Jasmine has brunch and mimosas,” she cajoled.
The prospect of mimosas and French toast was enough to force me out of bed and into fresh clothes.
“Makeup,” Erika said, swiping on mascara.
“I’m just going to Jasmine’s.”
“You never know who you’ll meet. You might trip and fall and be treated by a super-hot fireman. You might be hit by the car of a rich billionaire, who will see you lying there gracefully on the hood of his limited-edition million-dollar sports car and realize you’re the only thing missing from his cold, boring life.”
“Why do all of those scenarios end up with me hurt?”
“It’s the damsel-in-distress trope,” Erika said as we walked through the chilly morning air to Jasmine’s house. “It triggers a guy’s protective instincts. And also, you are sort of accident prone, and if you’re going to trip and fall in front of a rich, good-looking guy, better to do it gracefully instead of hurling your dildo collection at him.”
I groaned. “I’m never going to live that down.”
We climbed up the wide steps to Jasmine’s front porch.
Erika snickered as she rang the doorbell. Jasmine answered, impeccably dressed and proffering mimosas in champagne flutes on a silver tray.
“Ladies.” Two of the foster corgis waddled around my legs as Jasmine handed me a champagne flute. She sniffed me. “Still a virgin. Too bad!”
“How can you tell just from smelling me?” I asked, horrified.
Jasmine laughed. “Erika told me. But you don’t smell like sex.”
“Why can’t we start a book club or a knitting club?” I complained. “Why does it have to be the Get Sadie Laid Club?”
“I made stuffed French toast and grilled asparagus. Eat something; you’ll feel better. Then you can tell us about how in the world you blew the date.”
“I didn’t,” I said, snagging a piece of bacon as Jasmine slid a thick slice of cream-cheese-and-strawberry-stuffed French toast onto a plate and handed it to me. “It was Parker.”
“Parker Svensson?”
“He just keeps appearing and cockblocking me. Well, I suppose that would be clit-blocking.”
