Heidi's Guide to Four Letter Words(2)

It takes everything in me not to give myself a full-on facepalm. “It’s not a live radio show, Mom. People don’t call in. If you’re going to sit there, you have to be quiet. I’m already going to have enough work to do editing out this whole conversation. And just so you know, since I’m going back to the beginning, I’m going to have to talk about dirty things, since you now know that’s how this podcast basically started and why it’s called Heidi’s Discount Erotica.”

She lifts her brow again. “How dirty are we talking?

“Episode six dirty,” I reply.

She looks scandalized. “Oh, my. Was that the one where he put his—”

“Yes.”

“And then he did that thing with his—”

“Yes.”

“I might need a few more tater tot hotdishes to get through this. Just give me a signal when you get to the dirty parts. Wave your hands in the air or something just so I can brace myself.”

I can’t help but giggle. I love my mom, as crazy as she is. “I can’t believe I’m doing this. Okay, let’s try this again. Hello, everyone! Welcome to Heidi’s Discount Erotica Podcast, episode number ten. I’m going to do something a little different today, so I hope you enjoy it. I feel like I’ve left a lot of things out of my podcasts, and since you guys have all been so amazing throughout this entire process, I want to go back to the beginning and tell you everything. I want you to know why I, Heidi Larson, a former kindergarten teacher, decided to start recording podcasts reading the dirtiest parts I could find from erotic romance novels, how I found the perfect guy who appreciated everything about me, and how I screwed it all up.”

“Do you have to say the word ‘erotic’ so much?” Mom asks through a mouthful.

I sigh, giving my mother a glare before beginning once again. “Heidi’s Discount Erotica Podcast, episode ten, take three.”





Chapter 1





Three months earlier…

Closing my eyes, I take a deep, calming breath and enjoy the peaceful sounds of a beautiful, hot summer night in Waconia, Minnesota. Sitting in a chair on the front porch of my home after the long, stressful day I had, there’s nothing more soothing than listening to the chirping of crickets, the low buzz of Cicadas, and a woman loudly announcing all the dirty things she’d like to do to my neighbor.

Wait, what?

“I’m not wearing any panties under this skirt, Brent. We should celebrate our first date by getting completely naked.”

My eyes fly open and my heart starts beating erratically in my chest when her high-pitched, nasally voice interrupts my serenity.

I really love the street where I live, lined with adorable, bungalow-style houses on each side, but having everyone’s houses so close together means it’s easy to hear what your neighbors are saying when they’re outside. Normally, I don’t mind hearing Mrs. Peterson lovingly talk to her rosebushes because she believes it makes them grow and flourish, or Mr. Olson grumbling about his twelve-year-old lawnmower that never wants to start. Listening to them talk to themselves always makes me smile. But this? Oh my goodness. This isn’t doing anything to help me stay relaxed.

“Why don’t we go inside and you can introduce me to that impressive bulge in your pants I’ve been eying all night.”

Oh jeez, who talks like this? Outside, on the sidewalk, where God and everyone can hear them no less?

I need to quietly get up from my chair, sneak back inside my house, and not eavesdrop on this conversation any further. As soon as I stand and the view of my neighbor’s walkway that leads up to his house is no longer hindered by the large purple hydrangea bush right next to my porch, my feet suddenly become frozen in place when I see him.

Brent Miller. The sweetest, handsomest man I’ve ever met, with his short, dirty blond hair and piercing blue eyes. He bought the house next to mine a few months ago after relocating from California, and he’s the main reason I’ve been spending so much time on my front porch lately, just so I can catch a glimpse of him.

Sometimes, when he’s outside at the same time as me, he’ll shout hello from his front yard and ask me how I am. A bunch of times, he’s walked over and sat in the extra chair next to mine on my front porch and asked me about my day, or had me tell him about the other people who live on our street, since he hasn’t had a chance to meet them all yet. Once in a while, if he’s in a hurry, he just lifts his hand with a wave and a smile before disappearing inside his house. I live for those moments where his attention is on me. For those few seconds or minutes where my heart beats faster and I try to come up with something clever or funny to say just to see the dimples in his cheeks when he smiles.

With the bright glow of the street lamp by the sidewalk in front of Brent’s house, I can see the corner of his mouth tip up into a half smile as he looks at the woman standing in front of him, and a rush of jealously shoots through me.

“I’ve been thinking about putting your cock in my mouth all through dinner.”

This woman’s brazen words and the way she presses her body flush up against Brent right in the middle of his yard forces a gasping squeak out of me. My hand flies up to my mouth to try to muffle the noise, but it’s too late. Brent’s eyes swing in my direction, and I do what any sane, twenty-five-year-old woman would do when she’s spying on the man she has a massive crush on. I duck down behind the hydrangeas as fast as possible before he can see me. Unfortunately, I move too quickly and lose my footing on the edge of my concrete front porch, which I now regret never installing a railing around the edge of. My body topples down the two feet between the porch and the ground, getting scraped by hydrangea branches as I go. I land on my shoulder, letting out a quiet, pain-filled “oof!” as I flop into a heap under the shrubbery.