How to Fail at Flirting(32)

I nodded, doing my best to push that thought from my head again. Instead, I pulled up the photo of Jake and me from that first night and handed her my phone. “I’ve never reacted to someone like I do to him, and he’s . . . generous.”

“Shit.” She exhaled slowly with a grin. “Does he have a brother?”

“You’re married.”

“I’ve been married a long time.” Felicia laughed. “Gonna see him again?”

“I hope so. He’s here through the end of the weekend, but he’s in a wedding tomorrow.”

She took another sip of her coffee and shook her head. “I’m glad he’s good in bed. You deserve some quality action after your re-virginizing dry spell. Not that guys before that were anything to write home about.”

That made me wince, remembering the guy I’d been with in graduate school and how he’d spend two minutes groping my breasts with kind of a honking motion before moving on to the main event. Foreplay? Schmorplay. It left me not only unsatisfied, but frustrated and embarrassed, like there was something wrong with me.

I set my cup down. “It’s weird. I feel . . . good with him. Not at all self-conscious. It’s like I can get out of my head.”

Felicia’s boys flew into the living room and simultaneously screamed for her attention. While she played referee, I warily pulled my buzzing phone from my pocket. If it kept buzzing without me answering, Felicia would know something was wrong.

    Jake: Thomas wants to celebrate his last night of freedom by drinking all the whiskey in Chicago.

Jake: Am I a bad groomsman if I ditch this fool to be with you?

Naya: You must stay with your groom, for better or worse.

Naya: Isn’t there a bros before hoes clause in the man code?

Jake: The loophole to that clause is a gorgeous woman who thinks I’m cute.



I closed the text window and looked up to see Felicia’s self-satisfied smile.

“Who’s that?” She sipped from her cup, giving me a knowing look over the rim.

“Shut up.”





Eighteen





I set my glass on the counter and tied my robe. The scent of the lavender-infused candle filled my small bathroom and wafted into the bedroom. My muscles had relaxed after dinner with Felicia and the kids and two glasses of wine, but I was still a little jittery from seeing Davis and getting his texts. Outside my window, the streetlights cast circles of golden light over the uneven sidewalks below.

My phone chirped, and I spun to retrieve it from my nightstand, hoping it was Jake. It was, though on the screen was a photo of four scantily clad women doing shots with a guy who looked to be around forty.

    Jake: Remember the woo-hoo girls from the night we met? Their clones are here.

Naya: Are you mixing and mingling?

Jake: I am texting you.

Naya: Let me guess . . . you’d prefer an intimate, dignified gathering of gentlemen, sipping scotch in high-backed chairs while smoking cigars? Discussing policy and finance?

Jake: Because I’m a railroad tycoon from the 20s?



I carried my phone to the bed and lay back against the pillows, a grin on my face as my thumbs moved across my screen.

    Naya: Or a modern-day railroad tycoon.

Jake: Do not pass go. Do not collect $200.

Naya: Ba-dum-dum. What would you prefer to be doing?

Jake: Anything involving you.



I read and reread the last text, goose bumps rising on my skin and my thighs clenching.

    Naya: Skydiving? Bungee jumping? Basketball?

Jake: You’re funny.



My fingers danced over my collarbone, and I remembered the taste of dulce de leche and scotch. My thumbs hovered over the screen in a temporary text paralysis. Arousal unfurled from low in my belly and spread out to my fingertips, which rested over my racing heart. I slid my thumb over the screen, unsure where this boldness was coming from all of a sudden. The ache between my legs definitely had something to do with it, but it was more knowing somehow that Jake would not judge me, that he’d go with me down the rabbit hole.

    Naya: Something naughtier?

Naya: What’s on the table?

Jake: My jaw. Are you sexting me?



His last messages sent a jolt through me, and my center pulsed. I didn’t exactly know what sexting entailed, but something told me Jake would be good at it, and I wanted to find out.

    Naya: Which emoji am I supposed to use?

Jake: I’m no expert, but . . .



I watched the three dots disappear, and then the cake emoji popped up on the screen. I laughed, the sound filling my bedroom, and an oddly gleeful feeling mixed with my arousal.

    Naya: How did you know that would get me so hot?

Jake: Lucky guess. I like getting you hot.

Jake: Makes me imagine all the different ways I could . . . warm you up.



My nipples tightened to hard buds under my robe at the memory of his big hands pulling my body against him, the firm way he’d held me to him, and his dimples, deep divots that appeared when he smiled. All of it pushed me on.

    Naya: Between that and the cake, you’re really succeeding.

Jake: Was it mostly the cake?