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• Chapter One

  Brooke

  “Fuck yeah, baby. You ready? Huh? You ready to come all over this cock?”

  I dig my nails into Paul’s shoulders, arching my back off the bed. My breath hitches. “Yes, God… fuck, don’t stop.”

  “Fuuuck.” He squeezes my hips while he pounds into me. Sweat beads up on his brow, on the dusting of hair coating his chest as he throws his head back, filling the condom with a groan, the cords in his neck straining.

  My own orgasm follows seconds later.

  “Coming!” I yell, closing my eyes as that sweet heat burns down my spine, exploding into a thousand stars between my hips. I lock my ankles behind his back, keeping his firm body pinned between my legs, his cock exactly where I need it while I ride this out. My body hums, my thighs shake against his skin.

  God, I love sex. I mean really, who doesn’t love this right here? I’d consider giving up cupcakes for this.

  I grind my hips against his pelvis as a life without salted caramel icing flashes in front of my eyes.

  Chocolate chip cheesecake. Red velvet. White chocolate raspberry.

  Okay, maybe not cupcakes, and maybe not this sex. I’ve had to tag myself in a few times.

  “Greedy girl,” Paul murmurs, sliding his hand between my tits. He pinches my nipple.

  “Mm,” I purr, slowly peeking up at him as that perfect ache settles, leaving me sated.

  A lazy smile beams down at me, but blurs into something indiscernible as Paul’s spent body suddenly collapses on top of mine.

  “Lord, move off.” I rock my hips, shoving against his shoulders. “Asshole. You’re going to kill me.”

  He laughs, rolling onto his back and pulling off the condom with a satisfied groan. He ties it off. “Goddamn, I don’t think I’ve ever filled one of these this much before. My dick might need a week to recover.”

  Mm. I guess I’ll take that as a compliment.

  Go, Brooke. Wreck those penises.

  I stand from the bed and grab my clothes off the floor, dressing hastily as Paul treads to the bathroom. Slipping into my heels, I spin to grab my clutch off the nightstand and run straight into a bare chest.

  “Oh, hey, sorry,” I mumble, shifting my weight on my feet. “Just grabbing my stuff.”

  He squeezes my hips, bunching the material of my dress in his hands. “Where are you going? Stay for a little while.”

  “Can’t. I need to get home.”

  “We can order take-out or something. Are you hungry?”

  “I already ate.”

  His brow furrows as his grip on me loosens, then vanishes completely. His shoulders drop. “Why do I feel like I was just used?”

  A laugh rumbles in the back of my throat. I move past him, picking up my clutch. “I had a nice time tonight. Maybe I’ll see you around.”

  “And do what? Is this going to happen again if I do see you? `Cause if I’m being honest, Brooke, I’m not really feeling the love right now.”

  I lift my head to look at him. His dark eyes are suddenly unsure. He looks wounded.

  Wow, really? Didn’t peg you as a clinger, Paul.

  Securing my clutch under my arm, I plant a brief kiss on his cheek, whispering, “don’t act like you didn’t know what this was.”

  As I pad toward the door, my heels tapping against the hardwood, I wait for that moment to hit me where I feel remorse, or regret. Anything to make me turn around and reassure this man, but it never comes.

  I don’t feel bad for this. I never feel bad after having an orgasm, even if some of them are brought on by my own efforts. And really? Why should I feel bad? He came. A lot, apparently. Enough to make him gaze at that condom like a proud father cradling a newborn. We’re both walking away from this experience satisfied, even if I am technically the only one walking.

  Regret? Remorse? Fuck that noise. I’m Brooke Wicks, and I love sex. A lot of it. I don’t see any problem with my hit it and quit it philosophy. I’m doing what I want with the men I want to do it with.

  Period.

  Hand on the doorknob, I turn and give Paul one last look; a sweet one. “Good night.”

  His eyes, lost in focus, slowly lift to meet mine. “Yeah… yeah, good night.”

  With little resistance, I slam the door shut, smiling at the sound.

  A hard, satisfying bang.

  Nope. No regrets here.

  **

  I step inside the condo, shutting the door behind me and setting my keys and clutch down. Two sets of eyes peer curiously at me over the back of the couch.

  Let the interrogation begin.

  “Yes?” I ask, pulling my heels off and setting them by the door.

  Billy turns around, throwing his arm behind Joey. “Well?”

  I limply shrug. “Five.”

  “That’s it?” Joey’s back goes rigid. His eyebrows meet his blonde hairline. “On a scale of one to ten, he was a five in bed? Are you fucking serious?”

  “Oh, I thought you were asking me how big he was.”

  Billy clears his throat, his wide eyes roaming the condo uncomfortably.

  I look between the two of them. “Seven. Extra point for the dirty talking.”

  Joey grimaces, waving me over. “A seven with a dick smaller than your vibrator? God… you poor, poor baby.”

  “I know. I was going to bail when I saw it, but then I thought I’d see what he could do. You know me… always the team player. Plus, it was pierced.”

  I round the couch and sit on the end next to Joey, who by the look on his face, is visualizing a pierced dick. Billy mouths the word “no” when he’s given an inquisitive stare, prompting a low laugh to push past Joey’s lips.

  I twirl a chunk of hair around my fingers.

  Mm. Out of the two of them, I’d peg Joey to be the one with the barbell through his junk. Billy wears too many suits, and don’t lawyers go through metal detectors when they go to court?

  I can’t see him wanting to explain his Prince Albert every day to security.

  My body forms to the soft leather as I relax, head tilted back, my gaze on the ceiling. “He got all clingy on me when I was leaving. Full-on puppy-dog eyes and everything. I wasn’t expecting that.”

  “Humph. Are you sure he didn’t have a vagina?”

  I scoff at Joey. “I think I would’ve noticed. I was all up in it.”

  Billy stands and grabs the large, half-empty bowl of popcorn off the coffee table as Joey and I share a laugh.

  “You want to watch a movie with us? We just started The Best Of Me.”

  I smile up at Billy. “Nicholas Sparks? How very gay of you.”

  He feigns a laugh, hand flattening on his chest. “Hilarious, Brooke.”

  “Oh!” I shift onto my knees so that I can look between the two of them as Billy moves into the kitchen.

  I almost forgot!

  “You are both about to be so, so proud of me. I went to Agent Provocateur today, and didn’t spend a dime. Not one cent! Do you have any idea how difficult that was? I started shaking like a crack addict when I saw the new spring line.” I hold my hand up, beaming when Joey high-fives me. “I even tried on stuff. What I did today, the restraint I showed, is seriously unheard of for me. I should actually go back to the store now and buy something to celebrate the fact that I didn’t buy anything earlier.”

  I go to get up and Joey grabs my wrist, tugging me down. We share a teasing look.

  “Kidding, they’re closed, obviously, but seriously, how great am I doing with my spending? My bank account is looking awesome lately. Give me a few weeks, and I should be out of here.”

  Getting evicted from my apartment two months ago was probably the lowest moment in my life. Well, that and the cum-shot gone wrong in New Orleans.

  I swear my eye twitches occasionally because of that mishap.

  After I found the notice taped to my door, I flipped off my landlord and weighed my options.

  My overbearing parents—God, no, I’d rather get my teeth drilled, or Juls.

  I love my sister, I do, but I can’t live with her. Besides, her and Ian are in tiny-tot land. She’s popping out a kid every nine months it seems. They need their family space. I need to not have to explain to my four year old nephew why Aunt Brooke has things that vibrate in her bedroom.

  My landlord gave me one week to get out. I thought I was screwed. I was ready to deal with the ramifications of living under my father’s roof again. I’m sure he would’ve tried to tag me with a curfew, even though I’m twenty-five, haven’t had a curfew since I was seventeen, and mastered the art of sneaking through my bedroom window when I used to live there. However, these two amazing men saved the day and offered me a place to crash. The three of us have gotten close since I started working at the bakery, me and Joey especially.

  Who would’ve thought me and Joey would become besties? I hated that bitch growing up.

  Billy hands me a daiquiri. His eyes, warm and kind, stay glued to mine as he moves to his seat. “You know we don’t mind you living here, right? We’re not kicking you out, Brooke. There’s no rush.”

  “Ha!” Joey smirks, his eyebrow arching playfully as he settles against Billy’s side. “No, we’re not, but I would like to fuck loud eventually. I’m all for you kicking your shopping addiction if it means we can go back to trying to break the sound barrier.”

  I swallow my mouthful of daiquiri quickly before I spit it out. A quick chill runs through me. “Please. I have to wear those giant noise-canceling headphones when you two go at it, and I can still hear you begging, Joey. You don’t know how to be quiet.”

  “Oh, and you do?” Joey rolls his eyes, lifting his own glass. “You’re loud even by yourself, Brooke.”

  “It’s not my fault I’m amazing. Ask Paul. He can confirm that.”

  Billy grabs the remote, a tense wave passing over his features. “Can we start up the movie and get off this topic? I had no idea you could hear us.”

  “Everyone can hear you.” I point at the wall behind me when he turns his head and eyes me cautiously. “Mrs. Kessler caught me in the elevator last week and asked me if you two were remodeling in here. Something about you yelling ‘give me a hammer.’ You should’ve seen her face when I told her you were actually saying hummer.”

  Billy closes his eyes, groaning. “Jesus Christ.”

  “No wonder that old bitch has been giving me strange looks lately.” Joey waves a dismissive hand in front of his face. He shifts about on the couch. “Fuck her and her moss covered vagina. My sex life is fantastic, and I don’t care if the entire state hears my baby asking me to suck him off. We quiet down for no one.”

  I pull my glass away from my lips, laughing as Billy rakes a hand down his face, noticeably uncomfortable.

  He’s so different from Joey. The complete opposite, actually, but they complement each other perfectly.

  Especially in the bedroom. I hear a lot.

  “I told you both I would only stay here until I had enough money saved up to move out. I love you guys, but I need to get my own place again. Our combined hair-care products are overtaking the condo.” I cock my head with a pout, shifting my gaze between them. “But I will miss the sleepovers. You’re such a sweet little spoon, Billy. All soft and cuddly.”

  He frowns. “There’s nothing about me that’s little, Brooke. Or soft,” he pauses, grinning. “Haven’t you heard?”

  Warmth floods my cheeks.

  Sweet Lord. Did Billy just insinuate…

  “No, there is definitely not,” Joey proudly affirms, cutting into my thoughts of R-rated antonyms. He squeezes Billy’s thigh. “Was that a hard ‘no’ on the dick jewelry? Any wiggle room on that?”

  The movie begins playing. Apparently, Billy’s answer was final.

  Joey’s lips brush against my hair as I swallow another mouthful of my daiquiri. “How was it with the piercing? Honestly,” he whispers.

  Typical Joey. Needing to know all the tricks of the trade. I am shocked he hasn’t been down this road himself, though.

  “The one spot that’s hard for some guys to hit,” I begin softly, bending my finger in a rhythmic motion. Our eyes lock. “He didn’t have any problem.”

  Joey slowly leans back. “Damn it. Am I seriously missing out?”

  “Shh.”

  We both glance at Billy, then resume whispering closely.

  “I know for a fact he hits all your spots just fine. As do the neighbors across the street.”

  “True. But I love trying new things with him. Maybe I could get it done.” Joey looks down at his lap, the corner of his mouth pulling tight. “That shit could go south, though. Really fuck up my perfect form. Not to mention it probably hurts like a motherfucker.”

  I press my lips to the edge of my glass, murmuring my next words when Billy tilts his head down and glares in my direction. “Want me to call Paul and ask? He’s probably staring at his phone expectantly.”

  Joey smiles. “He loved you, Brooke. How could you walk out on what you two shared?”

  Oh, my God.

  “Please.”

  “I’m sure he was seconds away from proposing. Or at least suggesting you move in with him.”

  I shake my head. “He was oddly fascinated with his own semen. That living arrangement would never work.”

  Seriously. Did he even flush that condom? Is there a chance he set it aside to frame it instead?

  Gross, Paul. You’ll never get a girl to stay that way.

  Joey bumps his shoulder against mine, pressing his weight into me. “That’s kind of hot, actually. But… okay, I have to know. Was it a barbell? Or one of those stud things? Oo! Did he have it going down the shaft?”

  The noise from the TV abruptly cuts off. Silence fills the condo.

  Billy leans forward, elbows resting on his knees, the look he reserves for moments when Joey and I go off on dick tangents at the dinner table ghosting across his face.

  I clear my throat, lowering my glass. “Hi, hey there, little spoon. Sorry, we’ll be quiet.”

  His eyes, steady with doubt, shift to Joey and soften marginally.

  There it is. Sweet Billy. No one else looks at Joey like that.

  Mindful to the fact that the only way to keep his husband on the couch with us and not locked in his office, going over documents that can surely wait until tomorrow is to shut up and watch the movie, Joey slides over and plucks the remote out of Billy’s hand.

  The movie resumes playing.

  I tuck my knees against my chest as the two men at the other end of the couch dissolve into each other, recommencing the intimate embrace they always share. The closeness that stills the two of them, even Joey, who is nearly impossible to silence.

  I sip leisurely on my daiquiri, my thoughts on piercings and poor, poor Paul, struggling to find the perfect spot to display that condom.

  **

  The sidewalk is already busy at a quarter after eight Monday morning as I make my usual trek down Fayette street, carefully juggling four coffee orders, my over-sized Coach bag, which just so happens to be the purchase that sent me over my spending limit two months ago, worth it, it’s fabulous, and the design binder I took home on Friday of Dylan’s.

  I wanted to organize some of the notes she had penciled in over the past several years and make things more legible, pretty even. I used textured paper and script font. The letters and thank you cards she received since opening the bakery that had been stuffed into the back pocket for keepsakes are now laminated and on display for clients to read in a section titled ‘Sweet Testimonials.’

  I’m honestly not sure how Dylan will take my modifications to the only thing she seems to study more than her husband. The thought of her hating what I’ve done, the one thing I haven’t cleared with her beforehand that involves her business, causes me to miss the giant crack in the pavement I’m usually careful to step over.

  “Ow, shit!”

  The binder goes down first, followed quickly by my Coach bag.

  But the coffee? Ha! Not today, city of Chicago.

  As I bend down, securing the leather strap on my shoulder, the binder pinched between my fingers, a car horn sounds and I lift my gaze to the street. Traffic clears. My eyes roam the row of shops on the west side of Fayette, until landing on one I haven’t seen before, or maybe, I just haven’t noticed.

  No, this has to be new. I would’ve noticed this.

  Sandwiched between a florist and a family-owned candle shop, the words Hot Yoga scream against the brick front in burnt-orange lettering. A simple logo swirls in the corner below the ‘a’.

  Yoga?

  “Yoga?”

  I straighten and stare a little longer at the new business, which just so happens to be in direct line-of-sight from the bakery.

  That’s almost laughable. Here, sweat your ass off, then skip across the street and stuff your face. Maybe we could go in with the owner and have some sort of a coupon-deal worked out.

  Five sessions and you get a free cupcake?

  I swallow down a giggle.

  Look at me, all business savvy, trolling for ways to pull in new customers while helping to promote other local enterprises.

  I should seriously run for president.

  The door chimes as I step inside the bakery, the scent of sugar now mingling with the aromatics wafting from the four coffees in my hand. With an exhaustive sigh, I set the cardboard carrier on the glass display case, followed by my bag and the design binder.

  Dylan perks up from behind the counter when she sees the latter.

  “There it is! You know I tore this place apart this weekend looking for that? What the hell, Brooke?”

  I flatten my hands on the glass, then hesitantly nudge the binder. “I, uh, did some reorganizing. I hope that’s okay.”

  Her face remains expressionless. I take in a shallow breath.

  Rule number one of life: Don’t piss off your employer, especially if that employer happens to be Dylan Carroll. She’s been known to go a little slap happy.

  Moving closer, she flips back the cover, then a few more pages, running her finger along the edge of the new font. Silently judging, meticulously studying every alteration I’ve made. She halts at the back where the testimonial section begins.

  I wipe a hand across my brow, relieved when I don’t feel the sweat I fear I’m releasing.

  “Mm.”

  I lean closer, staring at her mouth, the small crinkle in her nose. “Mm?”

  God, why the hell didn’t I ask permission first? Could she fire me over this?

  After what feels like the longest seconds of my life, she looks up at me, narrows her eyes, then smiles. “I love it. Brooke, this is… surprisingly thoughtful of you.”

  My mouth falls open. Surprisingly? “Hey, I’m thoughtful! I do stuff for other people all the time. Take last week when Ryan wanted that Elsa dress and Reese was on the brink of losing his ever-loving mind looking for it. Who stepped in and saved the day? Huh? Who almost got arrested at Target? You?”

  She laughs, tucking her long blonde hair behind her ear. “I know. I’m just kidding.”

  My spine straightens with pride as I pluck my coffee out of the carrier. “Well, you’re welcome. I’ll take that raise whenever you’re ready.”

  She cocks her head with a glare. I take a step back. Easy, Rocky.

  The door chimes, followed immediately by Joey’s booming morning voice.

  One volume. The man has one volume.

  He hooks his thumb over his cashmere covered shoulder in the direction of the window. “Did you see the yoga studio across the street? What is that mess about?”

  “Not just yoga,” I correct him. “Hot yoga. Lots of sweaty women with camel toe, being forced into ungodly positions.”

  Joey makes an amused sound in the back of his throat. “Sounds like somebody’s high school years.”

  “Yours?” Dylan throws out, resting her hands on her swollen belly. “Didn’t you wear an alarming amount of spandex back then?”

  Joey spins the carrier on the display case, tugging out the cup with his name scrolled on the side. “I’ll ignore that jab, since you’re carrying Joey Jr.”

  “His name isn’t Joey Jr.”

  “What?” Alarmed eyes flick between myself and Dylan. “Okay… Joseph? I’m fine with that.”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  I smile against my cup. “Excellent. We’ve settled on Brookes then? Suck on that, McDermott.”

  Joey glares at me over the top of his cup. I glare right back, laughing a little.

  Dylan gently sighs. “Sorry. We’re going with Blake. That’s the name we both like.”

  “Who’s we?” Joey squawks, his face suddenly two shades redder. “I don’t remember that name being on the table for discussion. And I definitely don’t remember receiving a phone call, asking my opinion before you started getting shit engraved.”

  “Why do I need to call you? And engraved? Really, Joey? Who got anything engraved?”

  A soft noise comes from the kitchen, followed by the familiar quick tapping of tiny feet on tile.

  Joey sweeps his free hand around the shop. “I’m sure there’s something around here with that name already on it. Is it possible to fill out the birth certificate before the birth? Has Reese figured out how to do that?”

  “Joey.” Dylan exhales exhaustively. “Fucking relax, all right? You haven’t heard the middle name yet.”

  “Momma!”

  Ryan comes barreling into the shop, her dirty blonde hair pulled up into two little sprouts on top of her head. Wearing a polka-dot dress and rainbow tights, she bounces up and down behind the counter, her hands grasping at the air.

  “Momma, wook! Wook at my pwetty dwess.”

  Dylan laughs, leaning down to kiss the top of her head. “You look so pretty, baby. Did Daddy let you pick out your clothes?”

  “Uh, huh. Wook. My shoes, Momma. I wove dem.”

  I risk a glance at Joey, catching the quick work of his finger along his cheek, no doubt catching a tear.

  “You okay?” I ask quietly, stepping closer as the tiny voice continues to shout up at her mother.

  He hesitates, then gives me a sly smile, mischief dancing in his crystal blue eyes. “Middle name. Did you hear? Suck on that, Wicks.”

  “Whatever.” I shove against his shoulder, moving him a few inches away.

  Not that it matters much to me. I was only tossing my name into the ring to rile up Joey.

  Success.

  “Aunt Bwooke!”

  I turn around, set my coffee on the glass case and rest my hands on my knees. “Hey, girlfriend. I love your dress.”

  Ryan spins, fanning the material out around her.

  “Daddy says I’m his pwincess. He’s wetting me dwive to Nana’s today.” She dances away, twirling in circles around the shop.

  “Is that so?” Dylan puts her hand on her hip just as Reese steps into the room, diaper bag on his arm, baby carrier in his hand, guilty as shit grin on his face.

  Mm. Busted.

  “What’s that?” he asks, his voice catching. Looking between his two girls, a cooing sound from the carrier draws his attention down. He smiles at Drew, Lord, the man is whipped, then focuses back on Dylan. “I never said that.”

  “Sure you didn’t.” She lifts her head up, welcoming his kiss. “Brooke got your coffee.”

  “Mm. Might not need it. I’m wide awake after that little shower session this morning,” he mumbles all too loudly against her mouth.

  “Good Lord,” Joey says, almost groans, from my right.

  I turn my head, expecting to see him still standing next to me, engaged in this conversation since I’m positive he just reacted to it, but instead I find him staring out the glass window, intently fixated on something.

  “What’s up?” I ask, joining his side, sucking the warm mocha off my lips.

  My eyes follow his across the street, widen, then nearly pop out of my skull and roll around on the floor.

  The door chimes, and I think I hear Reese’s faint good-bye, Ryan’s more animated one, and something Dylan says, but honestly, a fucking meteor could strike the earth right now and I wouldn’t notice.

  I inhale sharply. Maybe a little too sharp. My hand flattens on the window pane, steadying myself when I start seeing double of the man standing outside the yoga studio. I blink once, then once more, hard, waiting for him to suddenly up and vanish into a cloud of smoke.

  He can’t be real.

  He seriously can’t be real.

  A mirage, that’s what this is. I’m not standing in the bakery, on the verge of licking the window like some mental patient. I’m in the desert, dying of thirst, my throat raw as I struggle to stay alive. I look up and this man, my hallucination in the distance, is beckoning me closer with promises of clean water and wild sex.

  Two resources I’d be a damn fool to pass up. It’s all about survival in these elements.

  I bite my lip through a groan when the man places his hands on the back of his head and gazes up at the yoga sign on the building.

  My God, he’s the owner, he has to be. With that body? He’s practically a walking advertisement for Abercrombie and multiple orgasms.

  My eyes sweep over the length of him, slowly, before settling on the ass to beat all asses. Even from this distance, that thing would stop traffic in Times Square.

  “I, for one, am suddenly very interested in hot yoga,” Joey remarks under his breath.

  I whip my head to my right. “You’re married, and I’m calling dibs.”

  “Dibs? What are you, ten?”

  “What are you two looking at?” Dylan asks from somewhere behind us. “Can one of you lazy asses finish filling the display case, or am I the only person working today?”

  What am I looking at?

  Sex. That’s what I’m looking at.

  I look down, giving a quick once-over of my outfit before I make my move.

  Black v-neck tee, skinny jeans, and… fuck!

  Sneakers? Why am I wearing sneakers today? There is nothing sexy about the Nike swoosh. And my thoughtless choice of footwear definitely isn’t doing anything for my legs.

  I spin around and march past Dylan toward the kitchen. “I need to borrow some shoes.”

  “What?” she asks.

  “What?” Joey echoes in the distance, but I’m already halfway up the stairs, too focused on my mission to answer either one of them.

  Pumps. I need pumps. Something with a heel.

  Shoes are flying everywhere as I rummage through Dylan’s small closet. How she manages to fit her and Reese’s clothes in this thing, along with her gorgeous selection of handbags and other accessories is beyond me. They are in serious need of a bigger space, but I get it. She likes living above her bakery, and Reese will do anything to make her happy.

  With this third baby coming though, one of them might have to start sleeping in the bathtub. No way is another crib fitting in this loft.

  “Oh, hello pink.” My hands close around a delicious pair of Steve Maddens. I toe off my sneakers and remove my socks.

  Maneuvering carefully down the stairs, I re-enter the bakery, now three inches taller. Dylan and Joey take notice immediately.

  “Help yourself to my wardrobe, Brooke.”

  Her sarcasm isn’t lost on me.

  “Will do.”

  I grab an empty bakery box and slide the display case open, reaching inside.

  Joey nudges against me. “Do you really think he’s going to be staring at your feet, Miss Cleavage?” His words are muffled by the mouthful of danish he’s devouring.

  “I always feel more confident in heels.”

  “And the cupcakes?”

  “It’s a gesture. Welcome to the neighborhood, now let’s go get naked and eat these off each other.”

  Dylan laughs quietly. “I think it’s sweet. What’s that saying? The fastest way to a man’s cock is through his stomach?”

  “Mm, I don’t think that’s right,” Joey says, laughing. “Although, how many apple turnovers did Reese consume when you two were dating, but not dating, but totally dating?”

  “Shut up.”

  I straighten and close the box, rounding the counter and heading for the door. “Right. I’d say wish me luck, but we all know I don’t need it.”

  Their remarks, if they have any, are lost amongst the traffic from the street as I step outside. I wait not so patiently for a break to cross, shifting on my feet, taking quick bursts of air into my lungs.

  Why am I suddenly nervous?

  Because you’re about to suggest a night of scandalous indecency to a man who looks like the definition of the word ‘orgasm.’

  Ridiculous. He can’t be that hot. I’m sure some of his attractiveness will soften the closer I get.

  Like a mirage. He’ll vanish before I can touch him.

  Steadying the box in my hands, I quickly pad across the street.

  Determined.

  Mildly apprehensive.

  One hundred percent turned-on.