She dropped her head into her hand. What was wrong with her? She wasn’t into that kind of rough play, she didn’t need to be bitten, or manhandled, or talked to like that. But then, maybe she did, because those orgasms he delivered were the stuff you didn’t just write a poem about; those were the kind of Os that made you write an anthemic album that sold millions of copies as everyone screwed and made babies to it.
She waved her hands in front of her face, as if she could wave off the memories of the Best. Sex. Of. Her. Life.
She marched into her living room, grabbed a book of Shakespeare’s sonnets and sent a quick prayer to the Bard that he would reset her as the romantic she knew she was. God knew, the novel she’d tried reading this morning hadn’t helped—she’d downloaded a racy romance about two coworkers who agree to a no-strings-attached relationship for one week, hoping that will cure them of the simmering lust they have for each other. Whether their tactic worked was up for debate—she’d had to set the story down when the hero pushed all the papers off the desk and lifted the heroine onto it. She’d been getting too hot and bothered for her own good.
Settling into Sonnet 116, she reacquainted herself with a reminder of the importance of having something in common with a partner. “Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds,” she read out loud, nodding vigorously. Shakespeare was right. She and Smith were too far off the mark; they’d simply never work. Now take her parents—they were two like-minded people. They ran a winery together, they both loved wine and poetry, they liked the same books and movies, they were neat and orderly and they’d lasted through the years. On the other hand, there was Diane and the Douche. Her sweet sister went for the guy she was friends with, the life of the party type, and wound up being saddled with a divorce after only three years.
The proof was in front of her in her very own family. Smith would never be the kind of guy who could take care of a woman outside the bedroom. Though as soon as that thought touched down in her head, she flashed back to the Spring Festival last year. They’d played a few rounds of Skee-Ball, both their competitive spirits running strong. She’d won twice, he’d won twice, and they’d shared beers afterwards. But then a cruel migraine had set in quickly. He walked her home, fixed her a quick cup of the green tea that sometimes took the edge off her headaches, then tucked her in bed and turned out the lights so she could sleep her headache away. She’d hate to lose that sort of closeness if anything else continued with them.
She slammed the book of poems shut. They weren’t helping her forget him. She grabbed her phone and called her good friend Megan, who’d been living in LA for the last year. They’d gone to high school together, and Megan always gave solid advice. Her friend answered on the second ring, but didn’t speak right away. Jamie was greeted instead by loud clang, then a frenzied “Hello?”
“Hey Megster, how’s it going? You rearranging the furniture or something?”
“A pot just fell off the stove.”
“I hope it wasn’t boiling,” Jamie said with a laugh.
“It wasn’t. And it didn’t actually fall. I bumped into it,” Megan admitted sheepishly.
“You’ve always been prone to bumping into things.”
“So true. What’s going on up there? I miss you,” she said with a wistful tone in her voice.
Jamie started to tell her about last night, but something stopped her. She didn’t know what to say, or frankly, why she needed to talk about it. She’d already decided Smith was a one-time-only thing, so there was no need to rehash him. Chin up, move on, keep on keeping on.
“You should come back to Hidden Oaks then,” she said, shifting gears away from last night.
“I’ve been thinking about it. Things with Jason suck.”
“Oh no. I’m so sorry. Is it more of the same?” She asked carefully because last she heard, Megan’s boyfriend had been hitting the bottle a few too many times.
“Yeah. I never see him anymore. All he cares about is partying. I swear, I don’t know what I ever saw in him or why I moved here. We have nothing in common,” Megan said, frustration etched in her words. Jamie wanted to reach out and hug her, and tell her that somehow it was all going to work out. Not with Jason, but in general. They chatted some more, and Jamie checked her watch, realizing she needed to head to work.
“Okay sweets. Call me if you need to talk more,” she said, and even though they hadn’t chatted about Smith, somehow she felt better for that. Maybe this was the clear evidence that she wasn’t thinking about him—she didn’t need to discuss him.
She slipped her bag over her shoulder, locked the door, and walked to work, several blocks from her small bungalow. She wore a jean skirt, a short sleeve top, and ankle boots on her bare legs, the perfect ensemble for the warm spring day.
She walked past the local hair salon and the coffee shop, spotting a familiar face up ahead. Cara was walking her adorable black and white border collie mix in a perfect heel by her side. She was the best dog trainer in town, with a client list who adored her. Including Jamie’s sister.
She was about to say hello, when she remembered that Smith had once dated Cara. But who cared? She wasn’t dating Smith, and she certainly wasn’t so petty that she wouldn’t say hello for that reason. Besides, she was a dog person through and through, and she wanted to say hello to the pooch too.
“Hey Cara,” she called out with a wave. “How’s Violet?”