Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 92070 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 460(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92070 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 460(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
Curvy and tall, with a wicked smile instead of a come-hither one.
She pushes the hoodie into my hands.
"And you?" I ask.
"A bikini top is a shirt."
It's not like the employees are going to argue. Not the straight men, anyway.
Like them, I can't seem to verbalize an objection. I want to see her in this. In less. In my bed in nothing.
Ahem.
She motions to the coffee shop, currently empty except for two twenty-something guys behind the counter. "Shall we?"
We probably should. There's nothing else open. There aren't any other signs of life on the quiet street. No yellow lights in the other stores, no one walking along the sidewalk, no cars circling for a space. "After you." I open the door for her.
She steps inside the shop. "Thank you."
"You really need coffee this minute?"
"Of course."
"We're soaking wet," I say.
"We'll take it to go."
"They make pour-overs," I say.
"I'll meet you at your place if you don't want to wait."
I should say yes. I should race to my apartment, rub one out in the shower, spend enough time under the running water to find some hint of sense.
I don't.
"When have I ever turned down coffee?" I ask.
"When have you ever shown an interest in coffee?"
"Junior year," I say.
"Because I decided to investigate dark roast beans."
"And I volunteered as your taste tester." It meant a lot of free, high-quality coffee. And I got to help Val. Win-win.
She doesn't argue. She goes to the counter and orders a dark blend with a touch of cream and sugar.
I request the same.
Val shoots me a knowing look as we move to the register.
I pay.
She doesn't fight me on it. She moves to a low table next to the wide window and slides onto one of the hip metal chairs. "How tired are you?"
Don't look at her chest.
Don't look at her, period. She's sitting. I'm standing. It's far too easy to take this visual to other places. Out of the question places.
Better to look at the street outside. The dark blue hue of the sky. The empty sidewalk. Hey, see, there's a car driving down Santa Monica Blvd. Look at that.
"You're out of it." Her soft voice pulls me out of my thoughts.
My eyes go straight to her. Somehow, I manage to keep my gaze above her neck. "You woke me up."
"Is that it?"
No. "Yeah."
"Is everything okay with Brian?"
My kid brother. "He's good." My kid brother is at Cal State Northridge. Maybe it's not up to Diaz standards, but it's damn good for a Dickson (I humored Mom with an associate's degree from Santa Monica Community College). "He'd be better if you said hi."
"He's at your dad's?"
"He crashes with me some weekends."
"Oh, yeah?" She smiles. "You and Bri, staying up late, talking about girls."
"How'd you know?"
"So he's my replacement?"
"Nah. You smell better."
She laughs.
"And better taste in movies."
"And he makes you listen to metal," she says.
"Nu-metal."
"What makes it 'nu'?"
"Not quality," I say.
She smiles. "Is he seeing anyone?"
"Not that I know about."
"Are you?"
"I'd tell you."
"Would you?" she asks.
It's a fair question. We haven't talked about relationships much over the last three years. Not that my flings qualify as relationships.
It's not that I'm some sort of slut—I don't sleep with all the women I date. Just that I know what everyone wants from me:
Fun.
Val is the only person who's ever seen me as capable of more than a good time.
And right now—
I need to channel the more, move this conversation to any other topic. Because relationships involve sex, and my dick is way too excited to hear her talk about sex.
In any context.
Even the time I brought out a cucumber to demonstrate proper hand job technique. (Women always think they need to be gentle, for some reason. They don't).
Maybe that's it.
Maybe she wants another demonstration.
Only live this time.
Say, how to give a hand job in the bathroom.
Right now.
No. That's ridiculous. What twenty-something goes around giving hand jobs?
And Val doesn't need—
We're not—
"Valeria." The barista butchers her name. Ridiculous—this used to be Mexico—but I can't curse the man.
Her eye roll saves me from my dirty thoughts.
I offer my hand. When she takes it, I pull her to her feet and lead her to the counter.
The barista passes our drinks. Hers is perfect. I ask for more cream and sugar.
She smiles called it.
Some of my friends live and breathe coffee. They need the best roast every time they so much as sip java.
Val enjoys the ritual. She loves the dark, bitter brew. I love the bite of the beans, the warmth, the robust flavor.
But I need the mix of sweet and bitter.
The best combo in a drink or a life.
Like my relationship with Val. Our friendship is all sweet. Knowing she's destined to outgrow me?
Not so much.
But that, too, is life. She's smart, educated, witty, gorgeous. And I'm a lot of things—conventionally attractive, charming (in my own way), funny, successful, and absolutely not the kind of guy who stays in her life forever.