“Consequences” was a mind game—or rather, a mind fuck—my mother had invented when Nero and I had barely been old enough to tie our shoes. What had probably started as a tool to help us gauge the possible consequences for our actions had become a way of life.
“Nessa, if you eat another cookie, then you’re going to get a stomachache,” Mom would say. I could practically smell the sunshine on her skin and lavender on her hands, both leftovers from a day in her garden. “If you get a stomachache, you won’t be able to go to Kaylani’s sleepover. If you don’t go to the sleepover, then—”
And so on and so on.
In the past couple of decades, I had mastered the game of “Consequences.” Unfortunately, I was still waiting for my prize, or, at the very least, a participation trophy.
“I’ll buy you that teapot you’ve been eyeing. The polka-dotted, Kate Spade one.”
Shit. She knows all my weak spots.
I was a teapot whore through and through.
Still, I wasn’t ready to crumble just yet. Not even for Kate Spade. Besides, my brother would kill me if I brought one more teapot into our house. Especially since he’d just finished building me a fourth shelf for my collection last week.
“I told you,” I said, crossing my arms in front of me. “I’m not interested in dating right now.”
June fixed me with a pointed gaze. “Babe, it’s been nine months.”
“I can count.”
“Hear her out, Nessie,” Nero said. “And don’t you dare throw your wine in my face, because it would be a crime to waste that cab.”
He took a break from wiping down the bar to tuck a stray hair behind his ear. Though his copper locks were nowhere near aslong as mine, they were still long enough to tuck it into a small ponytail at the base of his neck while he worked. On his off days, he usually just let it hang loose, down past his scruffy chin.
My eyes rolled back into the deepest recesses of my head, partly because I knew he was right—and I hated when my brother was right—but more than that, I was sick of dating.
Men and women.
I was a failure to bisexuals everywhere.
Athletics had never been my thing, and that applied to the dating game, too. Which was why I had decided to throw in the towel and retire from the sport altogether.
I’d been on a sex ban for months now. My ever-growing collection of dildos and I had gotten well acquainted this past year, ever since Hazel and I had called things off before Christmas. They got the job done alright—more than alright, if I was being honest—but damn, sometimes I missed the touch of another person. Not enough to call off my self-imposed celibacy, but still. Every now and then, I found myself craving those surprise neck nibbles and forehead kisses and early morning, under-the-covers leg tangling—all the things a six-inch piece of silicone named after a porn star couldn’t give you.
“Ness, I’m telling you,” June said. “Landon is perfect for you.”
I lifted a brow. “Landon?”
“Landon Blake.”
Well, that decided it. He sounded like a Bond villain.
Every woman over the age of thirty knew better than to trust a man with two first names. Double the first name meant double the heartache and four times the therapy bill.
Girl math.
“June bug—”
“And before you say anything, you should know he’s an avid kayaker,andhe owns his own condo,andhe’s Gemini rising.” She winked. “With a Pisces moon.”
“Juney—”
“Oh! Oh!” she squealed excitedly, startling a few of my brother’s regulars. “He’s a regionally ranked pickle ball player.”
Nero snorted. “I’m not sure that’s something to brag about.”
“I’m sorry,” June said, turning toward him. “Are you the captain ofThe Gherkin Bags?” She didn’t give him a chance to answer. “No? Okay, then. Quit your yapping”
