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  5

  Amanda

  My mind flutters awake but my eyes don’t follow. I’m calm. The only sound I can hear is the rolling of the ocean. The only thing I can smell is the fresh saltwater.

  Fresh saltwater and something else. Eggs. Oh, and toast, just the way I like it. It’s not quite burnt, but it’s dark. It’s like I’ve cloned myself and taken the liberty of getting up and making breakfast for myself before I got out of bed. That’d be nice, right? ‘Cause no one can make my favorite breakfast like I can.

  Oh, and coffee. Almost-burnt toast, coffee, scrambled eggs, and…

  My eyes catch up with my mind and they pop open.

  “Morning, princess,” I hear a rough, sexy male voice say.

  Princess?

  I look over to the nightstand...nightstand? That’s not my nightstand.

  Heckin...what?

  Then my brain catches up with my mind. Two different things, I learned that in one of my philosophy classes. That was my favorite class. I never fully grasped the mind and the brain being two different things, but now I do.

  I sit up in the bed and I immediately realize what happened last night. The tiara, the shots, the fact that I danced on a table. The fact that I took my clothes off in public.

  Dylan.

  Everything is a blur, but somehow, I can make out every single detail. Just because it’s a blur doesn’t mean I don’t remember it.

  And there’s something else that I most certainly do remember. Something that sobers me up real quick.

  I’m not hungover right now - not exactly. Just a bit groggy. I have to call the girls. They are going to kill me. I don’t know where my phone is. I didn’t text them last night to tell them where I’d be. I most certainly did not plan to stay out all night.

  I sit up a little in bed, resting back on my elbows. The linens are cool to the touch and very soft, absolutely luxurious. And the view...the sky bleeds into the ocean, and everything outside is blue and soft and calm. The only thing not calm is the rolling of the ocean at the edge of the shore. It’s just that little bit bubbling up at the edge.

  And I don’t really want to look the man in front of the window, toiling away at his small kitchenette, taking creamer out of the refrigerator. Taking a wooden spoon and trying a little bite of the eggs softly cooking on the stovetop. Taking the toast out of the toaster just a little too late, so it’s almost burnt, just the way I like it.

  I swallow hard. I don’t want to look, but of course that’s just a little white lie I’m telling myself.

  Last night was the best damn sex of my life. That’s why I don’t want to look at him. The dirty talk, calling me a princess, making me beg. It was all a little bit too much.

  But that’s why I want to look, too.

  He’s sexier now than he was last night. And it’s kind of hot how he isn’t looking over at me. Is that weird? He’s just standing in his kitchen with these sinful sweatpants, the edge hanging low on his hips, with no shirt on, and moving around easily like I’m not even here. Like it’s natural for me to be here.

  I look down, put my fist to my mouth, and clear my throat with a clearly fake cough.

  Dylan glances over at me and smiles, not taking his attention away from breakfast.

  “Hey,” he says sweetly, “I didn’t want to wake you.”

  “Oh, that’s nice of you,” I say, trying to pull the sheet up around my chest but trying to get my feet onto the floor at the same time. It’s proving to be an awkward maneuver. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep. I don’t even remember falling asleep, to be honest. I should have left. I’m sorry. I need to call the girls.”

  My words feel awkward as I say them. My movements feel awkward. I just am awkward.

  I hit him with all this information at once, and he seems unperturbed. I try to make my feet find the floor while keeping the sheet around me.

  “First of all, your phone’s in your purse over here on the couch,” he says, waving a wooden spoon over his shoulder, “second, I’m glad you stayed, and third, the girls came back looking for you and agreed it would be perfectly fine for you to stay here.”

  “Oh,” I say, just mildly taken aback. He’s got everything covered. He’s...he’s a good hookup.

  Not that I’d know, exactly. I’m not one for hookups. In fact, I suppose I’ve never had a one night stand before. I would never have had time for it - I’ve always been with Eric, or too busy studying before I met Eric to really date, let alone have random hookups. So yeah, no one night stands for me. Before last night, that is.

  I feel myself smile as I cross my arms and settle back onto the bed.

  “Sorry about the toast,” Dylan says, arranging his creation on a small tray, “it got a little burnt.”

  “Funny you say that, because I was just thinking about how good it smells.”

  Dylan brings the tray over and places it down on the bed. He sits down, nesting himself next to me casually.

  “You don’t have to flatter me,” he says, “I know my artistic abilities are not of the culinary variety.”

  “No, I swear,” I say, reaching for a piece of the slightly-blackened toast, “I like it extra done like this. What possible reason do I have to lie to you?”

  “Let’s see,” he says, “you’re just such a nice girl that you want to be nice to me just for the sake of being nice?”

  I feel my cheeks heat as he flashes me a sexy smile.

  And my mind drifts back to last night.

  Nice girl, indeed.

  “Well,” I say, taking a bite of the fluffy, soft, salty scrambled eggs, “I think you’re a good cook.”

  “Then I guess you’re easy to please.”

  Dylan knocks a shoulder into mine and takes a sip of his coffee.

  “About last night,” I start, “I do want you to know I don’t usually do that. I mean, not that there’s anything wrong with it. It’s just that it’s not usually me. And I don’t know why, but I think you should know that.”

  I really don’t know why I keep insisting upon this fact. I just feel compelled to tell him, and my mouth can’t keep up with my brain. It’s just spitting out things on its own. Maybe it’s because I really haven’t done this before, or maybe it’s because of the earth-shattering banality of the situation I’ve found myself in. The truth is it could be either or neither, or both all at the same time.

  “Alright,” Dylan says, putting his coffee mug down on the tray, “what’s going on, Mandy?”

  “What do you mean?” I ask, my eyes shifting to his.

  “You don’t have to convince me you’re a good girl.”

  “I’m not trying to convince you of anything,” I say, “I’m just telling the truth.”

  “Look,” he says, pushing his hair away from his face, “I meet lots and lots of people. When people get in my chair to get inked, they open up to me. I don’t know what it is. Maybe it’s being in close proximity. Maybe it’s the length of time we spend together. But I will tell you this. I spend lots of time with lots of people, all different kinds, and when they open up to me and start talking - even the shy ones - I’ve learned that when they get stuck on something, it’s because it’s the one thing they want to talk about. They’ll keep bringing it up. And Mandy, you keep insisting you’re a good girl, but from what I can see, whether you’re usually into the kind of shit we did last night or not, you are anything but a good girl.”

  I swallow thickly and feel as though I’ve been shot through the belly with a lead bullet.

  “That’s not true,” I begin to say. He raises an eyebrow to me. “It’s not,” I say again, but with a little bit less conviction.

  “We don’t really know each other, but you can talk to me. If anything’s on your mind, I have an ear to listen.”

  I take a full, deep breath, and then try to exhale all the bullshit I’ll have to deal with when I get home.

  “I’m just having a rough week,” I say, shaking my head. “But I appreciate your willingness to liste
n. I actually wasn’t even originally supposed to come on this trip this weekend.”

  “Well,” he says, putting his arm around me, “I’m glad you did.”

  He takes the tray carefully and places it on the nightstand. I want him to kiss me - I want that so badly - but all he does is put his arm around me and slips me between his muscular legs.

  “I have to say, you got me a little nervous when I saw the tiara,” he says, pushing my hair in front of my shoulders, “those are usually worn by brides-to-be.”

  “Ha,” I say, “no, that was on loan. I am certainly not a bride.”

  I am most certainly not a bride. I inhale sharply as Dylan kneads my shoulders with his thick, strong fingers. He digs the tips in gently and makes long, broad strokes.

  “That feels amazing,” I exhale deeply as he moves to between my shoulder blades. “Like, really incredible.”

  “You deserve to feel good,” he says, kissing me on the shoulder.

  “I wish I didn’t have to leave.”

  “You don’t.”

  “Yeah, I do,” I say wistfully, smiling, looking straight ahead at the fantastic view of the ocean, “it’s pretty here, but I have to leave.”

  “You don’t have to leave yet,” Dylan says, putting his lips softly on the side of my neck, at the tender spot between my hairline and my ear, “not yet.”

  My body begins to heat at his words, his touch, the feeling of his lips on my sensitive skin.

  I don’t say anything back to him. I don’t want to go. I want to stay wrapped up in Dylan’s arms all day. All night.

  But this is not reality, and I have to get back to reality.

  His hands roam along my arms, my shoulders, and he continues kneading my flesh. I still have the luxurious white bed sheet pulled tight across my breasts, but his hands roam down, pushing it away.

  And I feel my body responding to his touch as his strong, worked hands slide down the front of my body.

  I swallow hard and close my eyes, taking in a deep breath, filling my lungs with saltwater air and Dylan.

  And that’s when the reality of my beeping phone cuts through the air, interrupting my spoiled princess fantasy.

  “Ugh. I need to get that. It’s probably the girls.”

  “I got you,” Dylan says, taking his hands away from my collarbone and putting a sweet kiss on the back of my head. “Don’t move.”

  I watch as he scoots off the bed, taking his long, muscular legs out from around me. Watching his butt move in those pants is something else, and I blush as I reach over to grab my coffee mug from the nightstand.

  “Now I know the rules with girls,” he says, grabbing my purse. “I won’t go into your bag. I know you girls have all of your special potions and secrets in there.”

  “Sure,” I say as he hands me my purse, “right. The only potion you’ll find in there is instant hand sanitizer.”

  I take my phone out of my purse. There’s a text from the one person I don’t want to talk to. It’s the one person I am going to have to talk to, because we have to start the painful process of extricating ourselves from each other’s lives - good thing I didn’t really start moving all my crap into his place yet.

  Come home, the text from Eric says. Like an incantation. Open sesame. Abracadabra. Come home.

  My gut churns and I feel my body grow warm, a little queasy. I don’t know what home he’s talking about. Certainly not his home. Certainly not the place we were going to make our home.

  I don’t bother to slide my finger across the glass to open the text. I just hit the lock button on the side and toss it down on the bed, leaving it there next to my purse.

  “Everything alright?” Dylan asks, putting a soothing hand on my shoulder. I don’t know how it’s possible, but my chest blooms with heat as I look up at him, at his swimming, piercing blue eyes. It seems crazy, but in this moment he’s able to calm me. I feel leveled out, even, as though the text from Eric never even happened. I know it did, and I know I will have to deal with it, but this moment just pulls me out of that reality.

  If only for a moment.

  “Yeah,” I say, “I’m good.”

  Dylan smiles and puts his hand on the back of my neck, pulling me toward him gently. I slide into his lap slowly, quietly, and wrap my legs around his waist. The sheet I was wearing falls away from me completely, and Dylan kisses me.

  6

  Amanda

  One Month Later

  I bite the tip of my thumb and flip through a stack of magazines on the coffee table in front of me.

  I kept the appointment. Eric’s dad had pulled a few strings to get me this appointment months ago. Instead of feeling like I’ve accepted his charity by keeping the appointment, I think of being here today as a final “screw you” to the whole bunch of them.

  I look around the waiting room. Everyone in here is young and pretty. A pretty exterior doesn’t say anything about what’s on the inside, though of course younger people do have an easier time conceiving.

  It’s only women here, which makes me feel a little better. I was so damn nervous coming in here, and my heart still hasn’t really returned to its regularly-scheduled beating.

  Now, don’t get me wrong. It’s not as though Eric and I were trying to conceive prior to actually getting married. In the world constructed by his father, such a thing would be entirely verboten, I’m sure. But in order to confirm we’d be able to begin having children as soon as possible, his father arranged to have us each have an appointment with a doctor specializing in reproductive health. So that’s why I’m here. Don’t look a gift-horse in the mouth, or something, and shockingly, my health insurance through work covers most of the cost of the visits at this fabulous facility with the fabulous view of the park.

  So why not take full advantage of this opportunity?

  I hear a slight rustling over by the front desk. “Ms. Keane?” the woman sitting there tips a chin in the general direction of the waiting room.

  “That’s me,” I chirp as brightly as possible, placing the random glossy magazine I was pretending to read back on the coffee table. The woman gets up and ushers me past the reception area into a brightly-lit hallway with fancy-looking white textured wallpaper and a chair railing with yellow and white stripes painted below.

  I slip into the doctor’s office and the woman from the front desk takes my coat, tucking it into a closet in the corner of the room. They have those fancy, thick wooden hangers here. The window behind the big mahogany desk boasts an incredible view of the skyline, looking uptown past the park, all lush greenery and a big, bright blue sky.

  I haven’t seen a view this beautiful in a long time. I haven’t seen a view like this since…

  I look away from the window and settle into a chair facing the large desk. My body involuntarily scolds my brain for letting it go back there. I haven’t seen a view like this since Dylan’s apartment, but that’s in the past. I can go find my own stunning views. I don’t need his big picture window and I certainly don’t need my mind to drift toward him.

  Dylan. He didn’t break my heart. He just bruised it. He acted like he really liked me. But now I feel silly for believing a simple breakfast of burnt toast and fluffy eggs means anything more than just a man feeding a woman he had a one night stand with out of a sense of courtesy. Courtesy, and maybe wanting to get laid again.

  I pull my cardigan around me a little bit tighter, and even though my mind rushes back to that place and I let my eyes close and allow myself that tiny little indulgence of recalling the feeling of him between my thighs, I quickly push it away. I won’t allow myself to go there for too long. Even if it’s where my body and my mind want to go, I can’t let myself. Because it ends up hurting too much. It makes me ask too many questions; and those are questions I don’t want the answers to. Those are questions I can’t get answers to, anyway, so there is no use in asking.

  The door behind me clicks open and my doctor comes in, putting a kind hand gently on my shoulder as
she greets me.

  I relax and breathe a little bit easier. She has answers. She has all the answers. She has a fancy degree. Degrees, in fact, as evidenced by all the diplomas framed on her wall.

  “Ms. Keane,” she says sweetly, settling in behind her desk. I only know her from her practice’s website, but I’d recognize her if I saw her walking down the street. Simply put, she is stunning. Long, wavy brown hair, almost black. Very fair skin and sparkling green eyes. She is a little bit older but looks so good. Judging from when she completed medical school, she is probably in her mid-fifties, but she doesn’t look like it. Even if she did, it wouldn’t matter because she’d be beautiful either way, but I’ll just say that I want to do whatever the hell she is doing to stay so fit and pretty.

  And I hope I can pull off a cream-colored wide-leg pantsuit when I’m in my fifties.

  “Dr. Belmore,” I say, getting up slightly to shake her hand as she offers it across the desk, “it’s so nice to meet you. I read about you on your website. I saw you went to medical school at the same university I went to law school.”

  “Always lovely to meet another graduate of my alma-mater,” she says, crossing her legs elegantly under the desk, “go Crimson Knights!”

  We both laugh. She can tell I’m nervous, and her smile puts me a little more at ease.

  “So, Ms. Keane, what brings you here?” She opens a folder on her desk and peruses its contents, scanning my medical history. “I see here from the questionnaire you filled out that you were recently in a relationship that ended. I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “Oh,” I say, shaking my head, “don’t be. It was over before it ended. I’m glad it’s in the past. I got this appointment thinking I’d be trying to conceive in the near future, but life kind of got in the way of that.”

  “It always does, doesn’t it?” Dr. Belmore says. “So how can we help you out today?”