Hung

Movie Star Me reaches up and drags Pick’s head down to hers and proceeds to kiss him vigorously. I give myself points for effort. It’s not the smoothest kiss I’ve ever seen, but it’s clearly getting the job done. The phone disappears out of my hand.

“So?” Lola stares at me expectantly.

“It was a dare. I had to kiss the first guy I saw.”

“Such a hardship,” Olivia mocks.

“So you just tripped and your tongue accidentally ended up in his mouth?” Lola’s not ready to let this kiss go.

“It was just a kiss.” A really awesome, smoking hot, toe-curling first kiss—which is my favorite kind. It also sort of has me wondering what a second kiss with Pick would be like. I don’t really want to admit this to Lola and Olivia because then they’ll know that it wasn’t just because of the dare.

“Just?” Olivia asks.

“It was nothing. Are we really meeting just to ask me about a ten-second kiss?”

Lola grins. “Are you really doing Step Seven without us?”

I take a moment to imagine the collective reaction of the Big Bear Rogues if the three of us (or the four of us if I include Hunter) descend upon them looking for a chance to get back out there. Honestly, they’re nice guys. I’m sure they’d be happy to help strictly as a public service, but I don’t really want my sex life to be a group project.

“He’s not my Step Seven man,” I say as firmly as I can. “He was an aberration, a mistake.”

Lola nods thoughtfully. “Because it would be totally okay if you felt ready to get back on the horse.”

From the way she waggles her eyebrows, I think we all know she means horse as in hung like a horse. But I’ve sworn off guys. Maybe not forever, but for at least a year or ten. Kissing Pick was fun—and he’s a good sport—but I can’t go back for seconds. He is not an all-I-can-eat buffet.

Even if part of me wishes he were.

“This is the intervention part, right?” Olivia looks at Lola. When Lola nods, she continues. “Good. Then I’m going to tell you that you’d be crazy not to kiss your hotshot a second time. You only live once, and that man…

She makes a good point.

I need to stop.

Stop running.

Stop hiding behind my clothes, my hair, my fears.

And if it takes plastering myself all over a very sexy hotshot to do it? Well, there are definitely worse self-help programs in this world.

“I’ll think about it,” I say.

“Do it.” Lola nudges my knee with hers. “No regrets, girl. If you want to Step Seven that hotshot, you do it. YOLO.”

Lola screams this last word as she hoists her phone over her head. She looks like a warrior princess, a star, like a woman who’s not afraid of anything. I’m so sick and tired of being scared all the time. That’s not who I used to be, and I don’t like who I’ve turned myself into. The old Sarah Jo didn’t back down from a challenge. She went through life at full speed, living balls out. I’d kind of like her back.

Chapter Five

Sarah Jo

The look on Pick’s face when I strolled away from him after our first kiss is priceless. Yes, that’s present tense. Thanks to the miracle of modern cell phone technology, I’m able to replay that look of stunned surprise over and over again. I’m also the happy recipient of not one but two iPhone videos of his face and a third of his butt (the cook in question has a definite thing for faded denim and I’m not complaining). He looks amused. Deliciously confused. Ready to come after me and ask me all about my specials. It has to be the sensual warmth in his eyes, though, that has me melting. I kissed him on a dare, but I definitely don’t need any more trouble. Or men.

So maybe I grabbed a screenshot from Rosalie’s Pick video and made it my wallpaper. And just maybe one of the steamier stills is now hanging on the wall of the kitchen with Dish of the Day scrawled in the margins in hot pink Sharpie. I’m sure you remember that Pick is a good-looking man. Mr. Chocolate-Eyed, Broad-Shouldered, Big-Dick Lumberjack kisses even better than he looks, too, which is a definite plus in my book. It’s too bad I can’t start something with him, but I’ve learned my lesson. No more policemen, sheriffs, first responders, or firemen. That kind of guy is nothing but take-charge trouble.