“Quiet down!” I grind between my teeth, but Club Disapproval at the next table is shooting me evil looks again. “Your math skills are remarkable,” I mutter to Nix.
“Jesus,” she says. “Even I’ve had sex more recently than that. Are you sure you aren’t forgetting a hookup?”
“I haven’t had sex in I’m-at-risk-of-growing-a-new-hymen months, Nix. Trust me. I wouldn’t forget.”
Maggie snorts. “I think abstinence is starting to get to her too,” she says to Nix. “Yesterday, I caught her eyeing the bratwurst in my fridge.”
“It was a really nice bratwurst,” I say, “and I was . . . hungry. Who am I kidding? Sex. I need some.”
“Take your pick,” Nix says, motioning to the various men hanging around the bar. “There are any number of eligible bachelors here who would love to go home with you.”
“Right. I’m sure,” I mutter, running my eyes over the selection. But I’m not actually tempted. I don’t want to have sex with just anyone. I don’t need to be engaged or in love or anything, but it needs to be worth it. It’s like eating a slice of deep-dish pizza. I’m no stranger to high-calorie foods—bring ’em on—but there’s nothing worse than eating a thousand-calorie slice of pizza that leaves you thinking you could’ve had a V8. Sex is the same way. I don’t just want penetration. I want bed-rocking, guaranteed-to-blow-your-fucking-mind sex. Can-I-haz-more-please? sex.
No. I don’t just want sex. I want sure-to-be-amazing, wake-the-neighbors-and-make-the-dogs-howl sex. Any noble thoughts of waiting to meet my true love are off the table at this point. I want something reckless.
As if on cue, my phone buzzes. I hide it under the table so the girls don’t see it before I read the message.
Riverrat69: God help me, I can’t stop thinking about you.
“You are looking hot tonight,” Hanna says.
I grin. Because of the message I just received and because Hanna’s right. Tonight I wore red—the color that looks best with my pale skin and blond curls. I pulled my hair off my neck and donned my highest heels. None of this would come as a surprise to anyone who knows me—I don’t like to leave the house unless I’m “camera-ready,” as Mom would say. For evidence of what’s on a woman’s mind, you need to look beyond her clothes to what she’s wearing underneath.
And anyone who could see what I’m wearing under this dress—and how very little—would know that Lizzy Thompson has a secret. Boy, do I.
Biting back my smile so they’re not suspicious, I hit the button to close the chat client that the object of my fantasies uses to talk to me.
“Look at you.” Maggie chortles. “I see it in your eyes. You already have something planned. Miss Abstinence isn’t going to hold out much longer.”
“I’m not that lucky,” I say, but I wink at her as I take a long drink while mentally composing my reply to the message.
“How’s the search for Mr. Right going?” Cally asks.
“I get trying online dating, but I can’t believe you’re trying that new service,” Maggie says. “What happens if you hit it off with someone and there’s no physical attraction when you meet? Isn’t that going to be awkward? ‘Sorry, George. You have a great personality, and I thought I liked you, but I fancy six-pack stomachs, and you’re sporting more of a keg.’”
I snort and shake my head. Ever since I signed up for Something Real, the girls have been questioning my sanity. Nix is the only one in the group who knows what it’s like to be single. The others are so high on happily-ever-after that they’ve forgotten how lonely it is being single.
“I think you can find love in unexpected places,” Hanna says. “Why not a website?”
“I figured it couldn’t hurt to try,” I say. “The traditional way wasn’t working out for me.”
Maggie frowns. “Just be careful. There are so many creeps out there.”
“Truth,” Cally says. “I don’t like the anonymity aspect. Like, what if you found out you were talking to Kenny Rawlins?” She shudders.
“Isn’t he married?” Nix asks.
Maggie snorts. “Never slowed him down before . . .” She trails off, distracted as Asher crosses the bar, his eyes locked on hers. Her husband looks fine as fuck tonight in black dress pants and a matching button-up dress shirt.
“Ready to go home?” he asks her when he reaches the table. Anyone with functioning eyeballs can see in his eyes that “go home” is just code for “go fuck like bunnies.” Hell, you don’t need eyes. The two of them practically reek of pheromones.