Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 103621 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 518(@200wpm)___ 414(@250wpm)___ 345(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103621 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 518(@200wpm)___ 414(@250wpm)___ 345(@300wpm)
I may have had a baby at seventeen and struggled like hell to survive ever since, but that doesn’t make me one iota less valuable than any other woman on earth. Or less worthy of love, happiness, or of making my dreams come true.
And one of those dreams is finding a good man I can love with all my heart.
And my vagina.
“God wouldn’t have made sex so fun if he didn’t want us to enjoy it,” I remind my reflection as I smooth on my lip gloss.
I step away from the mirror, rolling my shoulders back as I survey my first “date night” outfit in ages. In a devastating little black dress that swoops down to show half my back, high heels, hair in a messy up-do, and a smoky eye, I look like the kind of girl who knows what to do in the dark.
Hopefully, it’ll come back to me in the moment, should I get the chance to put my money where my little black dress is.
Surely, making out is like riding a bike.
Right?
Outside in the living room, Nancy is deep into the rom-com of the night, barely fluttering her fingers as I say goodbye and head for the door, which I appreciate. If she’d gotten a closer look at what I’m wearing, the “just going to catch some music at a club with my new roommate” story would have been out the window.
Nancy’s no fool. She knows a woman doesn’t put on a dress like this to meet a “friend.”
I slip out of the penthouse and down to the street, where the doorman gives me an appreciative nod as he hails a cab.
The way his eyes linger on my legs makes me both pleased—still got it—and nervous. If the doorman is looking at me like that, what’s Grammercy going to think?
Probably that I’m trying way too hard, and it’s weird.
Stop it. He called you “beautiful” and clearly likes the way you look. And you want him to notice that you’re open to changing the vibes between you. That’s the whole point of the dress.
I exhale with a little nod.
Right.
The inner voice is right.
I just have to keep breathing and remember that no one ever died from shooting their shot and getting shot down.
The inside of the cab smells like pine air freshener, old leather, and a hint of cigarette smoke, and the driver has zydeco playing low on the radio. I give him the address and settle back, trying to explore Zen.
But every block closer to the French Quarter makes my pulse kick up another notch. I had a whole monologue planned out, but now I can’t remember a word of it. It’s like my anxiety has given my brain a Jedi mind wipe.
Shit! What the hell am I going to say? “Hey, I know we’re fake married and everything’s been perfect and platonic, but I would like to lick you. All over. Would you be open to some licking?”
No. Gross. Too aggressive and weird.
“Grammercy, I think I might be developing some roommate-inappropriate feelings.”
Blah. Too clinical. I’d sound like a robot.
“Hey, roomie, so…here’s the thing. I think about you. A lot. Like, a lot a lot, and I was wondering if maybe you thought about me, too?”
Nope. Too stalkerish, especially given the whole secret podcast situation.
Fuck, the podcast…
I can’t think about that now. If I think about that and what Grammercy might think about it, I’ll completely lose my nerve. I have to take this one hurdle at a time. First, I’ll find out if Grammercy’s even open to being more than friends. Then, I’ll figure out a way to tell him that I was a borderline creepy fangirl before we met in person.
Surely, that’s the kind of thing that gets easier after you’ve gotten to know each other better.
I mean, doesn’t everything get easier with time? And it’s not like I’ve exploited our relationship for content. I haven’t even recorded an episode since Mimi and I moved in.
Weirdly, I haven’t felt the need.
Before, my podcast was my outlet, my way of feeling like I had some agency in a life that felt more and more out of my control.
But now, I’m looking into going back to school, actually have a couple of interviews lined up for jobs I would be excited to have—as a mailroom girl at the city paper, with a chance for advancement, and as a social media manager for a local clothing brand that liked the copy samples I sent in.
Suddenly, the podcast feels less vital.
And who needs to fantasize about hockey players on a mic when she has a real-life NHL dreamboat sipping orange juice shirtless in her kitchen?
Fanning my face, I push the thought away. Must not think about shirtless Grammercy or I’ll get even more flustered than I am already.
The cab turns onto Dauphine Street, and soon we’re in the thick of Friday night in the Quarter. Music pours from every doorway—jazz, blues, and someone attempting “My Heart Will Go On” at a karaoke bar and failing spectacularly. The sidewalks are packed with tourists clutching their plastic go-cups full of wicked mixed drinks, locals who know which bars to avoid, and tarot readers promising to tell your future with a worn pack of cards.