After editing out some of the crazy Eve had imparted into my profile, I left it set to private. I walked to the fridge and poured myself a third glass of wine. As I shut the door, a magnet tumbled to the floor. The piece of paper it had been holding floated through the air and landed at my feet. I picked it up and read a little. Eve had made the list during one of our movie nights a few weeks ago. The title was written in bold strokes and underlined: Val’s My Turn List. The first few entries were in her handwriting. They started innocently enough…
Become a teacher
Visit Rome
Plant a giant garden with only flowers
Take dance lessons
Go to prom
Learn to surf
Go to a music festival
Leave my Christmas tree up until March
Get a pug
These were all things I’d wanted to do, but Ryan had been against—going back to school, traveling to Europe, planting a garden for no reason other than to smell flowers, getting a dog. We’d had a garden in our yard, but my ex-husband had filled it with vegetables. He’d thought planting flowers where no one could see them was a waste. And the tree—I loved having my Christmas tree up. There’s just something about coming down the stairs in the morning when it’s still dark, and the tree lighting up the living room. But Ryan hated decorations—he called them clutter and always insisted our tree come down on December 26th. If it were my choice, I’d keep it up year-round. I’d also wanted a dog, a pug, to be specific. But Ryan claimed they made him sneeze, even though we had plenty of friends with dogs, and he seemed fine at their houses.
Over the years of my marriage, I’d let my wants take a backseat to everything else. And that had been the point of the list Eve had started for me—it was my choice now. My turn.
While the first nine or so items on the list were harmless, things had become much more interesting as the evening went on—and we finished the second bottle of wine.
Wear sexy lingerie under my clothes for no reason
Date seven men in seven nights
Have sex in a public place where I might get caught
One-night stand—no names exchanged
Anal sex
Threesome had been crossed out after Eve and I debated the merits for a while.
I folded the piece of paper and tucked it into my purse. This was the last thing I wanted my son to find when he finally came home this summer. Taking my filled wine glass back to the couch with my laptop, I sat staring at the screen for a while. Match.com. I sipped and flipped through the photos Eve had posted. You really couldn’t see my face in any of them—no one would have to know if I just went online and checked things out. And I suppose if half of the things on my My Turn list were going to get done, I’d need to start with a date.
I wasn’t sure if it was the reminder from the list of all the things I hadn’t done, or maybe the wine. Or maybe…just maybe, it was time. But I did something I never thought I would do…I hit public on my profile.
Screw it. It’s my turn.
Chapter 2
* * *
Ford
My assistant had a mighty fine ass.
“How the fuck do you get any work done around here?” Logan’s head turned to follow Esmée as she walked out of my office. Her hips swayed from side to side, and my friend’s head synchronized perfectly.
I couldn’t blame him. The damn thing was a work of art. Full and curvy—currently wrapped in tight red fabric that molded to her body—a perfect upside-down heart. When Logan’s head craned to the right and nearly touched his shoulder, I knew he was mentally flipping that heart right-side up.
Esmée reached the door and looked back over her shoulder with a flirtatious smile. “Is there anything else I can do for you, Mr. Donovan? Mr. Beck?”
“We’re good. Thanks, Esmée.”
Of course, Logan being Logan, he couldn’t keep his mouth shut.
“Do I have to work here to hear you say Mr. Beck with that accent every morning?”
Esmée was a recent transplant from Paris to New York. Her heavy French accent escalated her sexiness from an easy ten to an overflowing eleven-plus. I should have known better than to ask her to bring us coffee with Logan anywhere in the vicinity.
“Ignore my friend. He doesn’t get out in public much. Would you mind shutting the door behind you?”
When the door closed, I wadded up a paper from my desk and whizzed it at him. “Stop ogling my staff, douchebag. You’re going to get me sued for workplace harassment.”
“Don’t tell me you haven’t made a play for that.”
“I don’t dip my pen in the company ink.”
“Since when? Last time I stopped by your office, you were banging that redhead from accounting with the sexy-as-shit shoes. And if I’m not mistaken, her cousin, too—at the same time, you lucky fuck.”
“That was a long time ago. I’ve matured since then.”
Logan tipped his chair back and smirked. “I forgot. That’s right. The receptionist—Ms. Mature. What was her name again? Misty? Marsha? Magdalene?”
“Maggie. And don’t remind me. That cost me a small fortune.”
“I would have paid a small fortune for what that woman gave you.”
“Except you don’t have a small fortune, asswipe.”
A few years ago I was going through a rough patch and not thinking with the right head. My receptionist videoed herself while giving me a blow job under my desk. I had no idea the whole thing was a setup. She’d positioned cameras from two different angles and told me to act like a pissed-off boss giving his secretary a job to do. I’d never been into role play before, but it turned out to be pretty damn hot.
Until she showed me a copy of the video and threatened to sue me for sexual harassment in the workplace. My attorney made me settle before it went to court. That was a business lesson in growing up they hadn’t taught me in college.
“So what’s our plan for next week?” Logan asked.
“My place at six. The C train is a block north on Eighty-first.”
Every year my college buddies got together for a weekend pub-crawl. We started early and hit a different bar within walking distance of each stop on a train line. One hour per bar. Ten stops on the train, ten different bars. Most years, guys started dropping by the fifth stop. But Logan and I always made it to the end. I paced myself, alternating waters between my drinks. Logan, well, he didn’t do the conservative approach. But the fucker could put away more drinks than anyone I’d ever met.
“What do you say we go warm up? Hit O’Malley’s?”
I looked at the time on my phone. “It’s ten thirty in the morning.”
Logan shrugged. “So?”
“I have actual work to do. In fact, you need to get the hell out of here. I have a meeting in ten minutes.”
“I still can’t believe you get to call sitting in this place and having that Persian kitten fetch you coffee, work.”
“A person from Paris is Parisian, not Persian, dumbass. And not everything is as simple as it looks.”
He shrugged and stood. “Whatever. Drinks tonight?”
“Can’t. Picking up Bella.”
“Annabella. How is your little sister?”