Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 106935 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 535(@200wpm)___ 428(@250wpm)___ 356(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106935 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 535(@200wpm)___ 428(@250wpm)___ 356(@300wpm)
Ethan lets out a low whistle. “Damn. You don’t fuck around.”
Harlow leans in closer. “I’m proud of you. When are you going to send it?”
“Now? Can I send it now?” I might sound overeager, but I’m just ready. I can’t keep doing this.
Ethan and Harlow meet each other’s gazes, then nod. “Shoot your shot,” Harlow instructs.
I hit send, then I make a show of turning the phone to do not disturb. “Now, my pets. Tell me all about your weeks. Your day. Anything. Spare no detail,” I say. I’ve taken up enough of the spotlight.
We chat and catch up on work and life as Harlow tells me about a new exhibit she’s curating, then about the success Bridger is having with his TV production company. “He’s getting ready to launch Ellie Snow’s new show,” Harlow says, clearly proud of her guy. “The love letter theme is so…chef’s kiss.”
“Of course. Because you and your man inspired it,” I say, with a knowing grin.
She just shrugs happily. “Maybe a little.”
“I can’t wait to see it,” Ethan says.
Then I pat his thigh. “Your turn. Tell me stories.”
Ethan shares the latest on Outrageous Record, finishing with how he’s trying but failing to write a new song.
“What kind of song are you hearing in your head?” Harlow asks.
“Something you can make out to,” he says, decisive.
“Duh,” Harlow teases.
“Those are the best kinds of songs,” I say, forcing my mind to stay right here with them rather than on the man I want to make out with.
“I want something sultry. The kind of song that hits you right in the heart, and in the panties,” he says with a salacious grin. “But I could use a little inspiration.”
“Like a burst of creativity?” I ask.
“I was thinking more like a hot hookup,” he deadpans. “I mean, I do find blow jobs super inspiring.”
Harlow slugs his shoulder. “You are obsessed with blow jobs.”
“Truth. He was raving about them the other week.”
Ethan rolls his eyes. “Like the two of you don’t radically enjoy face jobs.”
Harlow raises a hand. “I solemnly swear I love them.”
“Me too,” I say, lifting my palm as well.
Harlow sits up straighter, her eyes twinkling. “Wait. Maybe your song should be titled ‘Blown Away.’”
Ethan jumps up, grabs his pen and notebook, and writes that down. Then, he paces around the pool deck for a while, busy with his muse as Harlow and I talk about everything and nothing.
When Ethan finally settles back in with us on the couch, he shares a few lines. Damn, my friend rocks. “Would it be a total blow job of a compliment if I said that’s really fucking good?” I ask.
“No, it’d be a face job of one, Lay,” Harlow says.
“Let’s give it up for both BJs and FJs,” Ethan puts in, then the original Virgin Society says a collective thanks for the great joys of oral.
I feel like I’m home again, like I’m all me again, and it’s great. But when I go to bed that night and finally turn my phone back on, I’m still foolishly hoping for a response.
A message blinks up at me. My stomach swirls with nerves as I open it.
Nick: We do. Let’s talk Sunday night.
I’m dreading Sunday now, and I also want to speed up time.
34
MY UTTER OBSESSION
Nick
I’ve decided.
As I walk up the sand on Saturday after an early morning swim in the sea, I feel certain. Calm too. I’m at my friend Riggs’ Southampton home—he’s not here, but he’s letting David, Cynthia, and me use it for the weekend. Rose made a big donation and said she’d drive in this afternoon to attend the event, so I’m grateful he’ll have both his parents here.
David and I took the train here last night. He’s running some errands in town right now in Riggs’ car but should be back soon. Then, he’ll pick up Cynthia at the train station a little later today. She had to work late last night.
As I near Riggs’ home, I review the plan once more since there’s only one solution to the Layla problem.
When I reach the deck steps, I stop and look to the left. Layla told me her mother has a home nearby and that she’s staying there. I don’t know the address, but it’s not far away, as I recall her saying. Pretty sure she’s maybe half a mile up the sand.
She feels worlds away right now.
That makes my chest ache. I can’t give in though. I can’t reach out anymore. I have to do the right thing.
I tear my gaze from the white and cream beachfront mansions and head inside to take a shower, but before I can strip off my bathing suit, my phone rings. I grab it from the kitchen counter. It’s David. “Hey there, kiddo. What’s going on?”
“Cynthia was in a car accident. Dad, I’m freaking out,” he blurts out.