Kiss the Girl (Naughty Princess Club 3)

My heart is beating so fast right now I feel like I might have a heart attack, but I keep walking, seeing the food court up in the distance. The only thing I like about malls is the food court filled with every unhealthy food item you can think of. I need Chinese. And a soft pretzel with cream cheese. And six dozen freshly baked cookies from Mrs. Fields. And a trough of cheese fries sprinkled with a pound of crumbled crispy bacon.

“He took you to the flea market,” Belle states.

“Ha!” I laugh loudly. “Everyone knows I have a thing for antiques. That wasn’t some hidden agenda. He was just being nice and knew I’d like it there.”

Cindy grabs my arm, forcing me to stop moving and trying to beat all the ninety-year-old power walkers circling the area.

“Items number eleven and twelve on the list: Be interested in something the other person is passionate about, and recognize them for their hard work,” she tells me with a smile. “He got you to tell him all about antiques and how shopping for them works. He really got into it and enjoyed it and almost got his ass kicked by a jewelry dealer.”

“And he told you what you’ve done with the Naughty Princess Club is amazing and how proud he is of you for all your hard work,” Belle adds.

Right now I’m seriously regretting giving these two a play-by-play of everything Eric and I have done together the last few weeks. The room starts to spin and I press my hand against my chest, wondering if this is what it feels like to have a panic attack. My chest is getting tight, and I’m having a hard time taking air into my lungs.

“You think you have to be this hard-ass, independent woman who can take care of everything on her own, but you don’t. You have people around you who love you and want to help you, especially Eric,” Belle says, rubbing her hand against my back when I bend over and press my palms to my knees to try to remember how to breathe. “He knows you. Better than you know yourself. Better even than Cindy and I know you, since we just kept flat-out telling you that you were crazy for thinking you were anything but perfect. We did the obvious things. We came right out and told you what we thought you needed to hear to help you, and sent you articles. But Eric, he did it subtly. He did it quietly, and without you even knowing what was going on. And look at you: You’re confident. You feel good about yourself. And you’re ready to move forward with the next chapter of your life.”

“He tricked me is what he fucking did. He fucking tricked me!” I argue.

I don’t even know why I’m mad right now. All I know is being angry is preventing me from crying. It’s bad enough I’m in a fucking mall. I don’t need to add crying like a girl on top of it.

“He didn’t trick you. He truly cares about you and knew how to help you. He gave you sincere compliments on occasion instead of shoving them down your throat constantly. He didn’t make you stand in front of a mirror and tell him all the things you love about yourself because he knew you would probably stab him,” Cindy says with a gentle laugh. “He didn’t take advantage of you when you were feeling weak and vulnerable. He gave you orgasms without pushing you for more because he wants you to be comfortable with him. Sweetie, he helped give you back your power.”

And just like that, I’m crying in a goddamn mall.

Not because I tried on a pair of jeans that said they were my size and weren’t even big enough to fit a toddler, not because I have PTSD from trying to find a bathing suit where the top doesn’t make my boobs look like sausage spilling out of its casing and the bottoms are so tight I have permanent indent marks on my hips, and not because the workout I got trying to squeeze my ass into a pair of black leather pants made me sweat in places I didn’t even know I could sweat. I almost recreated that scene from Friends by pulling a small bottle of baby powder out of my purse that would have resulted in a sweat-powder paste in my crotch.

I’m crying because of a guy. A GUY. An annoying, sweet, charming, hot, funny guy who Kool-Aid-man smashed his way through all the walls I built around myself without my even knowing it.

“That motherfucking, dick bag, shit stick asshole . . . ,” I sniffle, standing up and swiping at the tears on my cheeks. “I need carbs. Right the fuck now.”