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My last date tried to rope me into a seance to contact his dead mother so she could “meet me and give her approval.” Needless to say, I never saw him again.
And all the air whooshed out of my lungs. Thick black hair. Olive skin. A slightly crooked nose that enhanced rather than detracted from his ruggedly masculine charm. My future husband was devastation poured into a suit. Not handsome by conventional means, but so powerful and compelling his presence swallowed every molecule of oxygen in the room like a black hole consuming a newborn star. There were generically good-looking men, and there was him.
strike fast, strike hard, and strike true.
credit.” I rose and circled the desk until I stood close enough to see the pulse fluttering in her neck. How much faster would it beat if I wrapped her hair around my fist and pulled her head back? If I kissed her until her mouth bruised and hiked up her skirt until she begged me to fuck her?
I wasn’t interested in actually fucking her, but she was so prim and proper she begged for corruption.
Whether I liked her or not, Vivian was my fiancée, and I was getting damn tired of hearing her name leave his mouth.
and it begins
The Tipsy Goat.
Familial relationships shouldn’t be transactional, but I couldn’t shake the sense I owed my parents a huge debt for everything—the opportunities, the education, the freedom to live and work where I want without worrying about money. They were luxuries most people didn’t have, and I didn’t take them for granted.
vivian
mia cara.”
It turned out the delicate little rose had some steel in her spine after all.
I was an asshole, not a boor.
haha!
Welcome to the truce, mia cara.
“Pringles, pickles, and pudding.”
“You make fun of me for my food choices but you’re pouring soy sauce over ice cream?”
His brow hitched at the chip in my hand, which I’d dipped in pudding and topped with a pickle.
Puoi negarlo quanto vuoi, ma è la verità.”
“How does he look at me?” Janis smiled. “Like he never wants to look away.”
“I hate the idea of you touching anyone else, or anyone else touching you. I hate that other people can make you laugh in a way I can’t. I hate how I feel around you, like you’re the only person that can make me lose control when I. Don’t. Lose. Control.”
It felt like hope. It felt like desire. It felt like ruin and salvation all in one.
My head and heart waged civil war against each other and, for the first time in my life, my heart was winning.
Love wasn’t always about the big moments. More often, it was tucked in the small moments connecting the major ones.
