The Feel Good Factor(7)

Vanessa stares at me. “Please, girl. You don’t need to be involved to enter a kissing marathon. Plus, I bet you can find someone who’d lock lips with you for a good cause. In fact, why don’t we have a little gentlewoman’s bet and see who can raise the most money for charity?”

“In a kissing contest?” I ask. “Arden’s totally going to reenact Scarlett and Rhett, right?”

Arden stares down her nose. “There are many fantastic book kisses. The Great Gatsby. Romeo and Juliet. The elevator kiss in Fifty Shades.”

“It can be whatever, as long as it’s a competition and it raises money for a charity,” Vanessa adds. “That’s what we want—any sort of contest. That’s what we can do for this year’s birthday gifts.”

The three of us decided a few years ago not to give each other birthday gifts. All through grade school, middle school, and high school we did, but now we’re adults, and we don’t need gifts from each other. Instead, we donate or raise money for some sort of charity. We all have fall birthdays, so it’s time to start planning.

Last year, Arden hosted a tea at her bookstore, raising money for underprivileged kids. Vanessa held a bowl-a-thon and donated the proceeds to a pediatric cancer charity. And I did a 10K walk to support don’t-text-and-drive efforts. They were our gifts to each other, and to ourselves too.

Vanessa’s brown eyes spark with excitement. “I could do a bowling competition for charity.”

“But you’re naturally good at that,” I say.

“And you were naturally good at kissing in high school.”

“Hey, don’t get on my case just ’cause I liked to make out with boys back then.”

“You like to make out with boys all the time,” Arden chimes in. “Anyway, I’m spearheading a reading competition among the book clubs at my shop. Most books read equals most money raised for literacy programs.”

Having lobbed the ball into my court, she stares at me expectantly, and Vanessa prompts, “And you should enter the kissing contest. It’s a slam dunk for you. It supports all the causes near and dear to your heart. Plus, your boss will like it. He said he wants your precinct to win.”

I raise a skeptical brow, even though she makes a good point. “I don’t want to horn in on his territory. What if he wants to win?”

Vanessa grabs my phone. “Just ask him.”

I sigh but grab the phone back and fire off a quick text to Jansen.



Perri: Question for you. You said you wanted our precinct to win the kissing contest. Would it help if you had more entrants?





His response is instantaneous.



Jansen: I didn’t want to ask you or anyone to enter, but my answer is the more the freaking merrier.





I show his response to my girls, and they smirk in tandem at me.

“See?” Vanessa says.

“Plus, I dare you to,” Arden adds.

“And I dare you to as well,” Vanessa seconds.

“You dare me? Are we in high school again?” I ask.

“If we were, you’d put up both hands to volunteer,” Vanessa teases, and she’s got me there.

It’s for a good cause.

And maybe I’d like to be a girl who loves spending her days kissing again without a care in the world.

“Now I’m going to have to find a guy I want to kiss for that long.”

Or at least long enough to raise a little dough.

As we finish the game, I keep wondering what it would be like to want to kiss someone for that long.

And I keep coming back to Mr. Trouble.





*



I have other matters to deal with before I find a man to kiss.

Namely, getting a little more money flowing into my coffers.

When I return home that evening, I call my brother Shaw, catching him up first on the potential good news about the patrol sergeant position.

“That’s what I’m talking about. You’re the woman,” he says, in the same tone you’d say you’re the man.

I turn on the light to the kitchen. “Thank you. I’m excited. I need to nab this. But do you know what else this means?”

“That you’ll finally crack down and arrest me for not paying back taxes on my secret after-hours stripping job?”

I laugh as I pour a glass of water. “As if anyone would pay you to strip, secretly or publicly.”

“Oh, ye of little faith. I have lines of ladies waving small bills in my direction. That’s what happens when you’re one of the stars of a very popular firefighters calendar.”

“You do realize the money is to get you to stop?”

“Yet all they say is ‘Go, go, go.’”

“Like I said, they want you to go away.”

“Fine, you win the smackdown,” he grumbles. “Anyway, what does the potential promotion mean?”

I glance toward the stairwell at the back of my small house and draw a deep, excited breath. “It means—drumroll—I won’t have to rent the room above the garage much longer. I won’t need the extra money.” The possibility is tantalizing. A good renter is gold. A bad one is the worst, and I’ve had the worst. I don’t ever want to share living space again with someone who cooks with onions, bathes in Obsession, and talks dirty all night long.