The Sexpert

And then my gaze falls on the one picture I have hanging on the wall over the bed. I’m a terrible picture hanger so this one was all I had the energy for.

It’s a giant cupcake. A pink cupcake with white frosting and pink sprinkles that I bought in the mall with my babysitting money when I was sixteen.

Holy shit. I almost fucked the whole night up before it even started! That picture above that bed in this apartment is a big flashing sign that says Sexpert.

The doorbell chimes again.

“One second!” I call, then rush over to the picture, take it off the wall, and… where the fuck can I hide this thing? It’s huge!

I could shove it in the bathroom, but what if he wants to use the bathroom?

“Eden?” Andrew calls from the other side of the door. He chimes the doorbell again. “What are you doing?”

I hang the picture back up and decide he just can’t come in. That’s all there is to it.

I grab my purse and swipe the hair out of my eyes (I always forget how long my hair is because it’s usually up in a ponytail, but tonight with it down and me not wearing my glasses, I remember. Maybe I should put it in a bun, or… Oh, hell, no time) as I walk over to the door and pull it open, just enough to slip my body through and start to close it behind me.

I have to squish past him because he starts forward, thinking he’s going inside, just as I’m scooting out before he can see my place, so we’re stuck there. Kinda wedged in the partially opened door, my magnificent breasts pushed up against his rock-hard chest.

“Uh… what are you doing?” He laughs.

“I’m ready,” I say. “We can go now.”

“You’re not gonna invite me in?”

“Nope. I think we’re late for the artsy thing so we’d better get a move on.”

“I’m pretty sure there’s no set time to be there. Here,” he says, holding up a bottle of what looks like champagne. “It’s non-alcoholic, semi-effervescent, sparkling cider, made from the finest Granny Smith apples. It’s pretty terrible. Let’s have a drink!” He starts to push his way into my place.

“Oh, wow. That’s super thoughtful to bring me a gift.” I hold him back, grab the bottle, turn my back, slip it through the door, set it on the floor, and close the door behind me, making sure it clicks. When I turn to look at him he’s… “What?” I ask.

“Do you have another guy in there?”

“What? No! Of course not.”

“Then why are you hiding your place?”

I take a deep breath. OK. I’m being weird. I’m so not good at this covert shit. “It’s just… I’m not terribly sophisticated, OK? And my apartment looks like a sixteen-year-old girl lives here.”

He chews on his lip like he thinks this is super sexy or something. “Is it fucked up that I think that’s super sexy?”

I knew it!

“Yes. Yes, it is. Just… You’ll see it later. K? Promise.” Which is an empty promise, because we will be going back to his place later. Then tomorrow I will get rid of all the pink and replace it with navy blue. Yup. Navy blue.

And then, because he’s not buying this at all, and this seems to be my modus operandi when I need a distraction, I kiss him.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR – ANDREW

I find this girl very confusing.

But I also don’t care because when I kiss her I feel good. And it’s probably that feeling that’s causing me to do certain things I wouldn’t otherwise do.

Like avoid Pierce’s calls and texts for the last couple of days. Because the only thing that continues to be on his mind is this goddamn Sexpert thing. He’s more and more convinced by the day that it’s Myrtle. And he wants me to confirm it.

The avoidance of Pierce dominoes straight into my avoidance of Dev, who is telling me that the app is ready. But I keep blowing him off and telling him I have other important stuff to take care of. And that dominoes into my avoidance of Carrie at Justice, who keeps reaching out to ask if we’re ready with the app. Because some splinter cell of… Yeah. I don’t even really want to know if I’m being honest.

Jesus. Who would’ve thought that a crush on a girl I met on the freeway would result in my tacit abetment of criminal and possibly terrorist activity?

Meanwhile, my dick isn’t asking any such questions. It’s just noticing that her mouth tastes like salt water taffy.

“What kind of lipstick are you wearing?” I mutter out.

“It’s called Salt Water Taffy. Is it OK?”

“It’s great,” I say as we keep kissing.

My hands now find themselves sliding down her hips, tracing the fabric of the dress she’s wearing and causing the fabric of the blue, gabardine pants I’m wearing to feel tight around the crotch. To make sure I’m not getting myself worked up too far too fast, I pull my hands up to her back, but that’s not helping because now my hands are touching her actual back. As opposed to the back of her dress. Because the dress has no back. Oh, my God.