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I pick up the long hem of my dress and make a break through the crowd. I know I should at least pretend to do what I said, or do it for real, and bid on things, but all of a sudden, I feel stifled. Humiliated. So freaking embarrassed I could melt into a melty puddle. There’s nothing like proposing a one-night stand for the first time and getting shot down. Yeah. Ouch. I feel this one to the soles of my feet. I’m probably blushing down there too.
I steam out of the ballroom, down the carpeted, ritzy hallway, and into the hotel’s dazzling lobby. The crystal chandelier overhead is so big that I think it might have taken eight cranes to lift it into place. It’s nearly blinding after the darkened lights of the ballroom. The light reflects off the crystals and stabs at my eyes, and yeah, that’s absolutely why I’m crying. Chandelier blindness. It’s a thing.
I stride past all the hotel’s finery, all the gold accents and artwork in gold frames, the red velvet chairs, my heels clicking madly on the marble floor when I stray from the red carpets. The sliding doors open for me, ejecting me into the sultry, warm night air.
I step onto the sidewalk, ignoring the people milling around, talking and laughing, some of them part of the function and others not. It’s funny to see a woman in a flowing red ballgown and just to her right are two women in jeans and t-shirts smoking cigarettes and laughing about old balls. Yeah. That’s really what they’re saying.
At least I have something else to think about now. A distraction. Old, wrinkly balls. Ugh. That’s worse than the extreme trouncing my pride just went through in that ballroom. I shouldn’t worry about it, though. I tell myself that’s a positive as I stand on the sidewalk, ready to flag down a cab. I shouldn’t worry about it because I’ll never have someone to get old with. I’ll never have to deal with wrinkly balls because no one’s balls will ever be old and wrinkly with me.
The curse is defunct when it comes to me.
Maybe these bloody earrings aren’t freaking cursed at all. Maybe I’m the only one who isn’t going to have a soulmate. I know that we all made a pact never to fall in love, but then everyone did, and as usual, I’m the one left behind. The last to experience everything.
“Hey…” A warm hand closes around my wrist and I gasp and whirl. I lift a heel and stomp down on the sidewalk, but John is too fast. He springs back, dropping my wrist, and narrowly avoids getting kicked in balls which are no doubt not wrinkly or old.
His balls are probably beautiful.
Honking, hissing geese, what a thing to think. That is just wrong with a double wrong and a side of wrong and more wrong.
“I’m sorry. I don’t think I’m an asshole. I don’t- I didn’t mean to say that I didn’t want to, or that I wouldn’t consider it. Uh- I’m- I’m making a fool of myself now, aren’t I? Maybe I should just shut and kiss you and if it’s good, then maybe you’ll still consider sharing a cab with me?”
That tingle in my stomach? I swear it’s my ovaries shivering. Or maybe they’re doing a happy dance. This is crazy. Just plain crazy. I don’t do things like this. Not one-night stands. Not accepting kisses from strangers. I’m slow, careful, and cautious. That’s me. The old Leandra.
Again, look how well that’s worked for you. Take a chance. Be bold. Let’s score!
Yup. That is definitely my vag-jay. I think I need help.
Kissing. He asked if he could kiss me. Holy moly guacamole, do I want him to kiss me? Do I really want to share a cab? That means going to his place… But if he doesn’t kiss me, I think I might regret it forever. Yes, I’ll definitely regret it forever. Because, duh, look at him! He’s like a freaking god. And he actually seems nice. NICE.
Also, maybe a small part of me (not so small) wants to see if he has beautiful everything. Not just beautiful balls.
So, like an absolute buffoon, I close my eyes, pucker up, and lean in.
And of course, because it’s me here, Leandra the cursed, but possibly defunct cursed, nothing happens. Absolutely. Nothing. Nada. A whole lot of air. Silence. Crickets. Zipola.
CHAPTER 2
Daniel
This woman, who I’m going to be forced to call Jane- but the name just doesn’t bloody well suit her (not that there’s anything wrong with the name, but it doesn’t fit in the least in this case), is far too vibrant, too interesting, too captivating for her own good. She’s also bloody well completely adorable, especially with her eyes closed and her lips puckered, leaning forward hopefully.
