Total pages in book: 154
Estimated words: 148473 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 742(@200wpm)___ 594(@250wpm)___ 495(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 148473 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 742(@200wpm)___ 594(@250wpm)___ 495(@300wpm)
But I’ve got a charity to launch with my best friend, a hockey season to dominate, and my dads’ thirty-fifth wedding anniversary coming up, though I like to tease them that their life together didn’t really start till they adopted me as a newborn. Point being, I’m too busy to get caught up in fantasies that are going exactly nowhere.
I know where I stand. Maeve’s my friend, and I’m not going to mess that up by entertaining more stolen kisses.
The game’s not over yet, but I’ve already made my decision. No matter what happened the other night, Maeve and I are just friends. And that’s how it’s going to stay.
When it’s time for another line shift, I jump over the boards and get back into the game. I’m here to win, on and off the ice, and that means sticking to what I know—friendship with Maeve. Nothing more, nothing less.
I’m all focus and power for the rest of the game as our goalie—Max Lambert—shuts down the other team.
When the final buzzer sounds, signaling our win, I skate off the ice with a clear head and a renewed focus. Maeve and I are going to Vegas next weekend as friends, and that’s how it’s going to stay.
I’m recommitting my mind to only friendly thoughts of Maeve.
7
A POP ART KISS
Maeve
A funny thing happens on Monday morning as I head into the studio space in the Mission District that I share with a handful of other artists in the city. Sometimes I paint here, but I also work on my side hustle—decorative art like lamps, mirrors, and vases—since, well, it’s at least steady. While I’m refurbishing some antique mirrors by adding rhinestones and gems to sparkle them up, I replay that kiss from the other night.
Again.
What is wrong with my brain? It wasn’t even a real kiss. We were like two actors on stage.
Actors don’t linger over stage kisses, I suspect. I shouldn’t either.
And yet as I affix tiny pink rhinestones to an art deco mirror that I’ll sell at the night market, the kiss plays on repeat. His lips were soft but confident. He smelled like soap and maybe oak, clean and woodsy. It felt a little like a kiss in a painting. Like the kind I secretly paint when I get extra studio time and when I have the space to myself. Like the kind I want to sell someday because of the way they make me feel. Warm, heady, like honey. Like I’m the woman in a Roy Lichtenstein painting, kissed in that pop art style, living my life in bold lines and bright colors.
But kisses in paintings aren’t real.
So why am I binging on it? Maybe because it was empirically a good kiss? Yeah, that makes sense. That’s why it’s looping in my brain. Good kisses are like chocolates, poems, and songs. They stay with you.
I set down the mirror on a workbench and pick up a brush instead. Maybe if I paint the kiss, I’ll get it out of my head.
Trouble is, I think about the kiss again the next day, and the next, and by Friday morning, it’s a little overwhelming in my head. I should not be thinking too long on one single, short kiss. I can’t cling to Asher like this, even in my head, so I vow to shake off the kiss once and for all as I pack for Vegas, and head out to see my friends before I catch the flight.
“Guess who still hasn’t heard about the super-secret awesome job?” I announce when I reach their table at Moon Over Milkshakes, our favorite retro-themed diner buzzing with the morning crowd. Setting my overnight bag down on the pink tiled floor, I slide into the mint green booth where my friends are already gathered, the air rich with the scent of freshly brewed coffee and sizzling bacon. Josie and Fable are draining big coffee mugs. Everly’s cup likely contains a London fog latte. She’s as loyal to that drink as she is to her friends. Leighton’s here, too, with a green tea. She’s a friend of Everly’s, and when Everly introduced us to her a couple months ago, we all hit it off. Immediately, we annexed her into our friend group late last year.
Before we dive into conversation though, I wave over the server, admiring the intricate ink of flowers on her arms. “First, those are some gorgeous dahlias. Second, can I get the overnight oats and the biggest chai latte in the city?”
She smiles. “Thank you. And not only is our chai latte the biggest, it’s the best.”
“Good. Maeve likes her chai lattes big,” Josie puts in.
“And other things big too,” Fable adds under her breath.
“Of course I do,” I say, unapologetic about my preferences.
The server laughs. “Understandable.”
My friends throw in their breakfast orders. We thank the server and when she leaves, Josie sets down her mug, her blue eyes kind behind her glasses as she meets my gaze. “How are you holding up, friend? I know you were eager to hear about the job.”