“Nothing about sex should be okay. Was any of it good?”
“I mean, it was all fine. I just . . .” I bite my bottom lip. There’s no way to finish that sentence that doesn’t make me want to crawl under my blankets and never come back out.
“You didn’t like it.” I glare, and he holds up his hands. “With all due respect, why do you think you’re bad at it?”
“It was made clear . . .” I shake my head, scowling when I realize Dean’s still staring. “Would you stop looking at me like that?”
“Like what?”
“Like I’m some weird insect you found crawling in your kitchen.”
He chuckles. “Abbi, I’m not looking at you like you’re an insect. I’m offended.”
I roll my eyes. “You know what I mean.”
He shakes his head. “I still don’t believe it.”
I set my jaw and give him my best glare. “Believe it, okay? Or don’t. I don’t care. Please drop it.”
“I don’t think you understand,” he says. “What I don’t believe is that a woman as confident and self-assured as you would believe she’s bad in bed.”
The only parts of my life where I could be accurately described as “confident” and “self-assured” are in the kitchen and with my friendships. Those words are galaxies away from bedroom-Abbi, and they’ll never exist in the same universe as naked-Abbi. Sighing, I shake my head. “Well, it happens, right? So here I am.”
“I don’t think it really does, though. I don’t believe bad in bed is actually a thing.”
“Okay.” Leaning forward, I drop my voice. “Let someone who has way more experience with this let you in on a sad truth: bad in bed is totally a thing.”
“Nah.” He drapes his arm across the booth seat and leans back. He snags a shot from the tray and tips it to his lips, sipping it like it’s fancy bourbon. “Physically incompatible partners are a thing. Not every pair has chemistry. Bad experiences, those definitely happen. Then there’s the unenthusiastic or selfish partner—that’s a thing too—or one who’s detached for one reason or another, though generally both of those also come down to a lack of chemistry.”
“Semantics,” I mutter.
“But semantics matter,” Dean says. “To say someone’s bad in bed implies that no matter who that person took to bed, the experience would be a bad one.”
“Yes, I’m aware of the literal definition,” I mutter. I keep slinking lower in the booth, but despite cashing in on every wish I ever failed to make in my twenty-five years, I simply don’t disappear.
“That’s just a bunch of bullshit right there,” he says. “I don’t buy it.”
“And I don’t want to be having this conversation. Just pretend I never said it.”
“I can’t. I’m sitting here with you, and instead of having a drink with my bud Abbi, I’m drinking with my bud Abbi who believes she’s bad in bed.”
I narrow my eyes. Am I drunk? Can you get drunk off one shot? “We’re the same people.”
“This revelation really bothers me, Abs.”
“Why?” I growl. Dean’s not cruel, so I know he isn’t trying to make me feel uncomfortable, but I don’t understand what his end game is here. “Why do you even care?”
“Well, first of all, I’d like to put my fist into the face of whatever guy put the idea in your head.”
“It wasn’t their fault,” I blurt.
Dean’s brows shoot up. “More than one asshole. Good to know.”
“Listen, my prior partners can’t be held responsible for what I do or don’t know, or for how I act or look in the bedroom.”
He holds up a hand. “Okay, now we’re onto something. What you do or don’t know is experience versus inexperience, which is another thing that definitely exists, but it doesn’t make someone bad in bed. If I’d never kissed someone before, it’s pretty unlikely I’d knock your socks off the first time I put my tongue in your mouth, but give me a few tries at it, and I’ll get better. That doesn’t make me a bad kisser, just an inexperienced one.” He leans forward. “The same goes for other things.”
“Listen, I know I’m not exactly the kind of girl guys dream about having in their beds. And I know—”
“Wait. Hold up. What?” Bless his heart, he’s staring at me as if what I just said isn’t completely obvious.
This is what turns perfectly normal women into reclusive cat ladies. Moments like this. I want to crawl out of my skin. “Don’t make me do this.”
“No. For real, back up.” He drags a hand over his beard and blows out a breath. “You think guys don’t want you? Because they don’t flirt with you?”
“I’m not doing this. I can’t. Tequila be damned.” I grab my purse and throw some cash on the table. “I’ll see you later. Please don’t mention this conversation again. Better yet, forget it altogether.” I slide out of the booth and stride toward the door as fast as my short legs can carry me.