Total pages in book: 199
Estimated words: 192134 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 961(@200wpm)___ 769(@250wpm)___ 640(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 192134 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 961(@200wpm)___ 769(@250wpm)___ 640(@300wpm)
The thought is stomach-turning. I don’t want her going to some sleazy sexpert, or even another friend.
I don’t want her turning to anyone else. Period. Sex-batical or no sex-batical, that’s unacceptable. And honestly, it’s probably worth breaking my two-months-and-counting fast.
I raise my gaze heavenward. Sean’s not here—may he rest in peace—but if his sister is fixated on finding someone in this city of millions to teach her how to come undone, and make a man do the same, it’s going to be me.
And fuck, do I ever want to see her come.
Maybe that makes me a bad man, but I’m finding being good is rapidly losing its appeal.
I walk Luna back to her truck, hug her goodbye, and then open CJ’s number on my phone.
I’m her friend, and I care deeply for her. I want her to know that. I also want to show her what kind of teacher I am.
The kind who doesn’t settle for less than 100 percent from his student.
5
CJ
I pedal harder. Faster. I’m climbing Mount Freaking Everest now. I’m cresting the icefall, then the Lhotse wall, and now heading to the summit. My heart hammers so hard it’s like a drumbeat in my ears. My blood pumps rapid-river fast.
But not fast enough.
I push the tension higher on the bike. Set the incline steeper. Ride harder. My quads scream at me, and my lungs feel like they want to rip right out of my chest.
But “Don’t Stop Me Now” by Queen blasts in my ears, nearly intense enough to drown out my thoughts.
Nearly.
But not enough.
Because no matter how hard I work out at the gym this afternoon, no matter how loudly I blast my favorite Retro Cycling Goodness playlist, I can’t help but think I am a colossal idiot.
Who the heck asks a friend to take off their training wheels?
Correction. Who the heck asks a friend who isn’t even attracted to her to pop her cherry? And then holds his company hostage?
I need to face-palm right now, but if I do I’ll slide off the bike and crumple to a pathetic death on the floor of my gym wearing my Good Grammar is Sexy T-shirt, and all things considered, that’s not how I want to go. The gym charges a fortune for towel rental so who knows how much they would charge for a full-body disposal.
As my heart slams against my rib cage, I imagine Graham poring over the newspaper on his tablet, quietly comparing the latest tragic world events to the tragedy of a woman reaching her mid-twenties without finding anyone willing to pluck her daisy. Graham out for a jog and running out of breath because he can’t stop cracking up over silly CJ, the weirdo spinster virgin. Graham in the middle of a meal and losing his appetite as he realizes he’ll have to find a gentle way to tell me that he has no interest in acquiring the deed to my property.
After all, it’s been hours, and he hasn't called. He hasn’t texted. He’s clearly going to give me a big fat no and tell me to hit the road.
On the verge of a sneaky death spiral into abject mortification, I jab out a text to my cousin Dylan, the only man I trust to be honest with me in times of dating trial.
CJ: Am I a hideous, unattractive nerd monster no man in his right mind would want to date?
Proving he is a prince among men, the kind of badass farmer who can drive a tractor with one hand and text the needy with the other, Dylan responds in just a few seconds.
Dylan: You’re my sweet baby cousin, so the answer to that question is yes. Stay single. Men are pigs.
CJ: Not helping.
Dylan: No, of course you aren’t a nerd monster. You’re the best. When are you coming to Cali? We’ll hook you up with a nice rescue dog from Tristan’s shelter. Dogs are not men or pigs.
“Still not helping,” I grumble, abandoning my phone and gripping the bike handles tighter. But that’s fine. I’ve got this.
I raise my chin, try to inhale deeply, exhale completely, and let go.
It’s cool. I’m chill. I’ll just ride till I collapse, then I’ll nap till the embarrassment washes away in, oh say, 2056.
My phone rattles on the control panel, startling me.
I slow my pace, nearly spinning off the bike when I see his name.
Graham . . .
My heart leaps into my throat.
This is it. The moment my brazen attitude slaps me in the face.
Graham: Hey.
I study the text as if something, anything, in those three letters will tell me if that’s a let’s-get-it-on hey or a please-don’t-throw-your-vagina-at-me hey. But I come up empty, so I serve it back to him.
CJ: Hey.
Graham: How’s it going?
I’m hot. Sweaty. Panting.
But of course that would send the wrong message. And the message I need to send right now is one of repentance and contrition. I need to let Graham know I’m sorry I crossed a line.