Fuck It (Yama Yama)

He snorts, shaking his head. “Nothing against you. Anderson has been on a…sabbatical from sex.”

“A sabbatical…from sex?” I ask, confused.

“For the past year,” he goes on.

“Since his wedding where he was sticking it to another girl and got called out just before he said I do?”

He gives me a look like I’m the one who is out of line. “That’s the reason he’s taken a sabbatical. He realized he had some issues, and sex seemed to be at the forefront of said issues.”

I think that over. I’ve only been working there for two months, and considering his reputation, I should have seen him do at least one thing with a woman on company property by now…but I haven’t. Hell, I don’t know if I’ve seen him speak to a woman unless it was business related.

“Maybe that’s why he’s the ultimate prick. He needs to get laid,” I decide.

“Not by you,” Roman says, though it’s more of a knee-jerk comment than a heated caution.

“That should go without saying,” I grumble.

Even if I could overlook the fact that he’s a cheater and a dick—which I can’t—I’d be the last person to sex him up.

Want to know why?

Oh, you’ll find out.

It’s not what you think.

You see, I have this little problem. It’s called…me being terrible at sex.

No, I’m not some girl who thinks she’s terrible at sex when really, she’s a sex goddess with innocent eyes and a dazzling, virginally-tight vagina. Nope. I know I’m terrible at sex.

Don’t get me wrong, I always get mine and enjoy myself, but the guys…not so much. The most I’ve ever had sex with the same guy is four times. Four freaking times is the maximum amount of times a man can endure me.

So, I guess I’ve been on a sabbatical too, because let’s face it, it’s hugely embarrassing to have a guy tell you he just can’t have sex with you…ever again.

It’s mortifying to have it happen multiple times.

I glance at the time on my phone as I pick up the cute little purse—empty purse, that is—of Lydia’s and start carrying it in, while Roman once again tackles another massive load.

No, I’m not lazy. I just don’t do heavy things. Ever. Heavy equals pain. And I hate pain.

Plus, I’m going to need all my energy to draft a completely new campaign, get it approved, and finalize it—all within three weeks.

“I need to get back to work,” I tell Roman as he tries to clear a path in Lydia’s new room.

“I’ll see you back at the office,” he tells me. I start to leave, when he adds, “Hey, thanks again for letting Lydia move in here.”

I shrug. “She’s one of your wife’s best friends, and I’m hardly ever here. That room was just wasting.”

He grins. “I like knowing you have someone here with you too that will keep an eye out for you.”

I don’t know Lydia very well. I spoke with her some a few months ago when my brother married his girlfriend after eight months of dating her. Kasha is…unique. Lydia, though, is still a quiet mystery.

Sometimes I wonder if she’s shy.

Sometimes I wonder if she’s secretly a devious genius dressed as a lamb.

Doesn’t matter. With me trying to earn my way in a new place, I’ll hardly ever see her.

“All she’ll see is my dirty laundry. I really won’t be here much until I find a rhythm. I’ve literally spent the night in my office twice this week already and now I have a hell of a lot more work than I thought possible. Anderson scrapped my campaign proposal. All of it.”

He grimaces. “I realize we both have an issue with taking a break, but don’t work yourself into a grave, Sicily. There’s a little more to life than just work. Trust me, I know.”

“Well, until I find my Kasha, work is my main priority,” I tell him with a wink before walking toward my car.

“Take it easy on Anderson,” he calls from behind me. “Abstinence can’t be fun.”

It’s not.

Somehow, I don’t think my brother wants to hear about my bout of abstinence though.

As soon as I reach my office and sit down, I turn on the music. Music to soothe me. Music to motivate me. Music that will keep me from having a two-year-old’s tantrum and stomping my feet until Anderson sees things my way.

He wants original, then I’ll give it to him. Or at least I’ll try. Doing an original ad campaign for beer is not an easy task.

As I’m sketching, “Roundtable Rival” plays on a loop, notching up the suspense in the room as I toss aside multiple scribbles and terrible sketch ideas, my knee bouncing to the beat.

Just as I toss another wad of crumpled up paper into the trashcan—okay, beside the damn thing since I never played basketball—Anderson walks in, his eyes taking in the obscene amount of paper wads that are everywhere but in the trash.