Not that her drink order would ever be an issue. She liked a cabernet during the work week—usually just one, but her limit was two—a Long Island iced tea when she went out with her friends, and a watermelon margarita on the Fourth of July—on the rocks, not blended.
“Okay.”
“Okay as in—”
“As in you’re right. We should probably do a trial run or two before the benefit. Otherwise, things will look suspicious.”
“How did those words taste coming out of your mouth?” Nessa hated being wrong more than I enjoyed being right.
“Bitter,” she grumbled. “Like homebrewed coffee.”
“Don’t worry, angel. You just haven’t tried my coffee yet.”
“And I never will.”
We’d see about that.
Nessa
“What about that scene where he bends her over his motorcycle and fucks her from behind?”
“That was good, but I preferred when he ate her out in her childhood bedroom.”
“Cue the swooning now.”
I loved romance readers. I loved the way they talked about fictional characters as if they were lifelong friends and how they ate up the same tropes time and time again, not despite the genre’s predictability, but ratherbecauseof it. There was a certain ease that came with knowing that no matter who the book was about or what era it took place in, the main couple—or sometimes throuple—was entitled to a happily ever after.
Most importantly, I loved the conversations that romance novels inspired amongst their faithful fanbase. Especially when it came to conversations about sex.
“Personally, I was hoping for a little more . . .umph.” Mel and her girlfriend were both regulars at Smutty Buddies. In fact, thismonth’s book club pick, a motorcycle romance calledRode Hard and Put Away Wet,had been her suggestion. “Like, there wasn’t even a blow job scene.”
I lifted a brow. “As I recall, this was your pick, Mel.”
“That’s probably why I’m so disappointed.” She stuffed another prospect pizza bite into her mouth. “BookTok duped me again.”
Thankfully, my regular batch of book club attendees were just as obsessed with a festive party theme as I was. Everyone was encouraged to bring a small, shareable dish inspired by our monthly pick, and this month, which included prospect pizza bites, mini club sandwiches, and biker cuts . . . of meat. I had also prepared three pitchers of Old Ladies, a delicious blend of pomegranate juice, seltzer, and shit ton of gin.
If you considered just how quickly tonight’s group had gone through the drinks, it was actually impressive that they’d waited this long to discuss blow jobs—or lack thereof.
“Did anybody else notice the Chekhov's dildo?”
A few heads swiveled in my direction.
“I’m sorry,” Mel said. “Chekhov’s dildo?”
Janet, who was a book club novice—and old enough to be my mother—nodded her head. “Yes, do tell.”
I glanced at the clock. It was getting late. We were already two hours into our discussion. Did they really want to talk about sex toys and Russian playwrights?
“I’m curious myself.”
My heart leapt at the familiar, deep-timbred voice. Like Moses parting the Red Sea, the crowd of mostly middle-aged soccer moms parted down the center, revealing none other than Jared Pink.
Excited gasps and titters filtered through the room. It didn’t matter if they were baseball fans or not. Jared had a chokehold on girls, gays, and theys everywhere.
“We saidFridaynight,” I said through a phony smile.
In fact, I specifically remembered mentioning that I was unavailable this evening due to a work event.
