Total pages in book: 69
Estimated words: 65913 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 330(@200wpm)___ 264(@250wpm)___ 220(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 65913 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 330(@200wpm)___ 264(@250wpm)___ 220(@300wpm)
Ellie sighs happily. “So he’s like an algorithm who learns your sex preferences.”
I laugh drily. “Yes, Ellie. He finger-fucked me like an AI web browser,” I say, but then my laughter ends. Tension spreads over my shoulders. “But this is bad, isn’t it? I’m practically banging my boss.”
“Practically? Sounds like it was actually,” she corrects as she grabs forks from the utensil drawer, then hands me one.
“We didn’t have sex,” I insist.
“Whatever helps you sleep at night.” Ellie winks, then snags napkins from the cupboard and lifts her fork like she’s toasting with the utensil. “Bon appétit. Now, take me back to the beginning.”
Because we’re classy, we stand at the counter and eat, forks diving into the same bowl as I tell her the rest of the story.
“. . . And when he made the comment about running a cake shop, it was game on,” I add, then take a drink of the wine. “Chardonnay. The drink of the boss-bangers.”
Ellie’s eyes glimmer. “Ooh, that makes me want to write a TV show called Boss-bangers. I’ll star in it too.”
“I’ll be your story consultant, naturally.”
“Of course you will,” she says. Then her gaze turns thoughtful and a little faraway. Is she unhappy as an actress? Eager for something more? I stop thinking about my complicated situation and zoom in on her.
“Do you want to write as well as act?” I’ve always thought Ellie had many talents. “The stories you tell from the set of Unfinished Business are hilarious. I could see you writing a show about being on a show.”
That reconnects her with the moment. “Maybe I do want to write too. I’m not foolish enough to think I can act forever. It’s hard for women.” Then, her smile grows. “Can we write a TV show about a female dating-columnist superhero? It’ll be called Adventures of a Sexpert. Instead of a sixth sense for a crime about to happen, she’ll get this tingly sensation down her spine when a woman desperately needs a sex toy to come. She’ll have a tool belt full of different dildos, and she’ll literally have to respond right then and there to deliver the right vibe to the woman,” Ellie says.
I set a hand on my heart. “It’s so true—not all heroines wear capes.” We both crack up, and when I stop laughing, I let go of some of the who-am-I-and-what-happens-next nerves. Spending time with Ellie always centers me and reminds me what’s important. Like friendship and career.
Which raises a new question. “Did I mess up again, Ellie? I do work for the guy, and I want to learn from my past career mistakes. Obviously, I screwed up when I sent my column to Agnes and all of McGee Whitney Books. But was it wrong of me to write about Mister Sexy Pants once I started working for him? Does that make me a creeper or something?”
Ellie scoffs. “No! You haven’t mentioned him that much since you started at the flower shop. You mostly wrote about him beforehand. And you two were even sexting before your job interview, so you knew from your convos that he was into you.”
“And Milo’s sex positive,” I add, thinking about our text messages. “He’s not an Agnes Millicent, wigging out over the mere mention of sex and sandwiches. That’s a stroke of good luck.”
Shaking her head, Ellie levels an intense stare my way. “It’s not luck, Veronica. There’s nothing wrong with your column. It’s a part of you, and you don’t have to justify it to anyone. You’re allowed to have a life outside of work. And you never named him. He was an idea in your columns. He wasn’t a traceable man.”
I could kiss her for pointing that out. But it also reminds me that I don’t know how Milo put two and two together.
Except, for the simplest of ways—he clearly read The Virgin Club and figured it out. But he’d be the only one who could connect the dots. He was the only person privy to the other side of the stories—the cake, and the dog lunging at the bike bit, and the flashing of my panties. The details were Easter eggs for him.
Which means I am officially not a creeper.
My defense rests.
But I still want to know everything. When did he discover the posts? What does he think of all the things I’ve shared? Though, I think I know, given the dark and dirty look in his eyes when he admitted he was good with his hands.
“Thanks for listening, Ellie,” I say to my friend. “I definitely needed to talk through all this after the orgasm haze cleared.”
“And I needed to hear the details. Now, tell me. What’s next with Mister Sexy Fingers?”
My stomach flips nervously. “I don’t know,” I say, then return to the food. As we finish the salad, we’re quiet for a few seconds, and in the silence, I can hear my answer. I take a deep breath, then say it out loud. “I like him. I want to see him again. But it’s complicated.” I shrug helplessly as I confess this new feeling, one that’s deeper than sex and stronger than desire. “I don’t want to ruin the dynamics at the store. And let’s say we do it again—do we just go back to being employee and boss?”