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)
But even so, it’s still messing with my head that she’s a virgin. Like, a real virgin? Not just today’s virgins, who consider themselves chaste if their ass hasn’t been deflowered?
How could a woman as beautiful, outgoing, and fucking adorable as CJ be a card-carrying member of the V club at age twenty-five? CJ is the stuff erotic dreams are made of. And in those dirty dreams, I can picture leading her somewhere private and stripping off her blouse, kissing those luscious tits of hers, making her moan. I can imagine discovering the flavor of her kiss, making her gasp as my tongue sweeps across her soft skin for the first time.
A horse and carriage clomp by, the horse neighing.
Yeah, that’s my cue to whoa nelly on my brain.
And to violate the first rule of Fight Club. The real rule.
I have to talk about this.
I need a reality check.
I need my good friend Luna, former business school study buddy and person I can always count on to give it to me straight—even when it hurts. And it just so happens she’s not far away.
I head to her food truck, texting her that I’ll be there in three minutes.
As I head up the cobblestone path not far from the carousel, she pops out of the doorway of the blue Luna’s Sweets truck on the other side of the roundabout. “Hey there, stranger.” Luna waves at me, smiling from behind her cat-eye glasses, her blond ponytail swishing in the breeze. “What are you doing here on a Sunday? Let me guess—you couldn’t keep away from my whoopie pies.”
I hold my arms out wide. “Who in the world can resist a whoopie pie?”
“No one. And let’s keep it that way. We open in thirty minutes, and I want a line as far as the eye can see. But you can have one now.” She winks and then slips back into the truck, returning a few seconds later with a whoopie pie in a paper boat. “For you, you closet pie junkie.”
I pat my flat belly. “Shh. Don’t tell anyone the real reason I run five miles every day is that I’m addicted to your whoopie.” I hold up a hand. “Wait, that sounded filthy. Reboot.”
Luna laughs. “It’s okay. I’m used to your dirty mind. But thankfully, I’m immune to your charms.”
“You wound me.”
“I know. You’ve never recovered from me choosing team chick over team dick, have you?” She waits for my usual assurances that yes, having my only bisexual friend swear off cock for the rest of her life was the most traumatizing event of my graduate school experience.
But my brain is fuzzy, and I’m not ready to fire back with our usual repartee. She seems to sense it, her brows drawing together as she scans my face. “Wow, you look like shit. What’s up?”
“You look lovely too.”
She punches my shoulder. “Shut up. I mean that with great affection.”
I rub my shoulder, pretending she hurt me. “And I appreciate your affection, even the kind where you punch me.” I take a deep breath and dive into the crazy end of the pool. “Ever feel like everything you thought you knew about the universe went up in smoke in a single morning?”
“Seeing as I barely understand how string theory supposedly ties the universe together, no. But I get what you’re saying. Come on. Let’s take a walk.” She unties her apron, wadding it into a ball and tossing it to the teenager in the truck. “Hold the fort. I’ll be back.”
We head through the trees and into the shade, Luna wiggling her hands into the pockets of her oversize sweater. “Talk to me.”
“It’s CJ Murphy. You know, Sean’s little sister?”
Luna hums thoughtfully. “Cute, curvy brunette at graduation? The one Sean treated like she was made of glass and made her go back to the hotel with their dad before we all went out for drinks?”
“Yes, that’s the one,” I say. “We’ve stayed close since Sean passed, and I, um . . . well, I learned something about her today.” I take my time with this. A part of me thinks I shouldn’t be sharing CJ’s secret, but Luna is a vault. She keeps all my confidences, always has, and I can’t process this new intel solo.
“She’s an ax murderer in her spare time?” Luna quips.
“Ha. Funny. But you’re not far off, oddity-wise.” I take another bite, finishing the pie and taking a deep breath. “But listen, this is personal. So please don’t share.”
She gives me a you-can’t-be-serious look. “As if.”
“I mean it, Luna. You can’t even tell Princess,” I say, referring to Valerie, Luna’s tall, strong, kick-ass-and-take-names wife. She’s the head of ticket operations at Madison Square Garden, as well as a part-time karate instructor, and about as far from the princess stereotype as you can get, but it’s sweet that Luna uses that nickname.