Tristan: I can’t wait.
I leave, stop in a specialty store along the way to pick up a gift for her, then I head to Peyton’s with the gift and the shirts in hand.
It’s good that I have extras. After all, if she likes tearing the shirt off me once, maybe she’ll want to do it a few more times.
Can’t hurt to run through the scenarios more than once.
9
Peyton
To wine or not to wine—that is the question.
But the answer is obviously wine.
After all, what’s the point of alcohol if not to smooth over the awkward moments between friends researching the practicality of different scenes from romance novels, right?
Right.
Or maybe the answer is . . . tequila.
As I stare at the shelves in the liquor store near my brownstone, I consider all the liquid options to take the edge off tonight. Lord knows I’ll need a little something to smooth over the jitters.
I’m a jack-in-the-box and have been with each tick of the second hand. Since Tristan agreed to be my test partner this morning, my heart’s been hammering at triple-espresso speed.
Fine, I’m only ripping off his shirt. But my hands will be on him. I’ll be undressing my best guy friend.
A friend I kissed ten years ago.
The thought of removing his shirt makes me . . .
I pause before the tequila, asking myself how it makes me feel.
Nervous? Excited? Scared out of my mind?
I haven’t undressed a man since Gage. He’s the only one I’ve been with for the last few years.
Just focus on the mission, not your mind-set.
That’s what I tell myself. Besides, liftoff begins in less than two hours, and I need to prep. No time to noodle on squishy feelings that have come out of nowhere.
The question of the hour—tequila or gin. Gin or tequila?
Maybe it’s a martini kind of night. Except my talents don’t lie in making drinks, shaken or stirred, for super spies, so I bypass that old James Bond standard.
While I could ask Tristan to make a special beverage, a good hostess would have a cocktail ready. That’s what my mother taught me growing up—never ask your guests to bring a thing but their presence.
Tristan insisted on buying the shirts, but everything else will be on my dime.
It should be a simple task to select the ideal drink for our research.
As I wander down the next aisle, I mentally mark the whiskeys and bourbons in the no column. I don’t have a fire extinguisher big enough to put out the flames in my throat from those liquors.
When I reach the rum options, I can hear the tinkle of kettle drums in my head, and I smell the sea breeze as I imagine strawberry daiquiris and piña coladas.
Hmm. Do I want an island drink, a city drink, or a classic drink? Why can’t I decide?
I scan the aisles up and down, but I don’t know what liquor sends the right message. What exactly does one imbibe to get in the mood to reenact scenes from a sexy rom-com with her best friend?
That persistent flock of nerve-birds descends on me once again, flapping annoyingly, winding me up.
This won’t do.
I need to calm down.
I need to relax.
What I truly need, though, is help, so I call for reinforcements, FaceTiming Lola.
“Hey, coolest chick I know,” I say when her face appears on the screen.
She flashes me a flattery-will-get-you-everywhere grin. “C’est moi. What can I do for you?”
I spin around, showing her the shelves behind me. “I’m faced with a bewilderment of choices. I don’t know if I want door number one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, or five hundred.”
“I assume this is your lubricant for tonight?”
My jaw falls open, and I whisper out of the corner of my mouth. “We don’t need lube. We’re not doing that. Also, hello? I’d like to think I don’t require lube. When it’s DTF time, I’m GTG.”
With the most epic of eye rolls, she laughs. “It was a metaphor—the social lubricant of liquor. But I’m glad you’re all ready when it’s down-to-fuck time.”
“Ohhhhh.” Well, fine. That makes more sense. I wave a hand like I can erase my last comment. “Pretend I didn’t say that.”
“Oh no, I can’t pretend, because there’s a lesson here. Don’t dismiss a little assistance, sweetie. Even if you’re good to go, you should try it sometime. It can make sex even better. Sex with yourself, sex with a partner, sex in general. Just because Gage wasn’t into experimentation doesn’t mean you can’t try new things.”
I bring the phone to my ear, lowering my volume. “Okay, how did we get from liquor advice to sex advice?”
“Sometimes they’re one and the same.”
“Also, I’m not having sex with Tristan,” I say, quiet but firm. I need to quash that notion. “We’re friends, and this is a research project.”
“It was a tip for the future. Or, really, for now, since you have the chance to try all sorts of things that your ex wasn’t into.”
True, Gage wasn’t the most sexually adventurous guy. He was a typical horny, three-position, twenty-something guy in the city. That worked well enough for me at the time, and our sex life was . . . standard. But since he’d been two-timing me for months, perhaps he was more experimental than I’d thought. But that also means the sex I did have with him was sex without real intimacy.
Sex without a true connection.
I’m not looking for a sex dungeon or a kink parlor. But at some point, I wouldn’t mind knowing what it’s like to sleep with someone I can trust.
Someone who isn’t looking the other way.
Someone who wants to be with only me.
That’s what I truly missed out on with Gage.
“I don’t think the issue was that Gage wasn’t into trying new things,” I say to Lola as frankly as I can, since the memory still hurts at times. “He wasn’t into trying new things with me.”
Lola pounces on my reply. “Don’t go there. Gage lost out on you. Don’t ever forget that.”
“I’ll try not to.” When I linger too long on the man I thought I’d marry, the wounds can be tender, the betrayal appearing as a fresh bruise. “But it’s hard, Lo. I put so much of myself into that relationship. I felt so sure about us for so long. He was smart and clever and doting. Until he wasn’t, and I didn’t see that coming.” My voice wobbles, threatening to break in front of the row of Bacardi.
“Sweetie,” Lola says softly, “you weren’t supposed to see it coming. He’s a cheater, and he pulled off a double act for a long time. You loved him, because you’re a true and honest person. But he wasn’t a good guy. And even though it hurt like hell, you regained something beautiful when he showed his true colors—yourself, your independence, and your romantic future. The world is your oyster. The bedroom is your oyster.”
A smile claims my lips, unbidden and unavoidable, as I wander toward the vodka. “Okay, how did we get from my liquor choices to my vulnerable underbelly to my oyster of a bedroom?”
Switching back to FaceTime mode, I catch her smiling serenely. “It’s just something I’ve been wanting to tell you for a long time, and the moment seemed right. Don’t dwell on him. Keep moving on. You’re doing great.”