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"Sex smart?"
Is he proud of his skill? Or is this part of his whole I'm cute and dumb thing? "You have any idea how bad I am with people?"
"Some, yeah." He laughs. "You shut down your new boy-toy, hard, every time he tried to flirt."
"I did not."
"You did. We're gonna have to practice."
"How will we do that?" I ask.
"I don't know. Flash cards."
"Okay, you work up flash cards and I'll study," I say.
"Run drills. Roleplay."
"Now?" I ask.
He checks the time on his watch. "Almost dinnertime."
"Almost beach time."
"Let's go in the morning," he says. "I'm starving."
On cue, my stomach growls. It's more confused than hungry—between snacks on the plane, enough coffee to keep a small army awake, and the nine-hour time difference, it's got no idea what's going on—but it is hungry. "I could eat." I'd rather go to the beach, but I'm willing to wait.
"In the morning, first thing, I promise."
"Okay."
"Well… after a sex shop."
My cheeks flush.
"They're on the way." He smiles. "Don't worry. We can hit the sex museum on the way back."
"It's really not that exciting," I say.
"Have you been?"
"No," I admit.
"Then you don't know."
Maybe.
He stands and stretches his arms over his head with his yawn.
It's contagious. I yawn too. But I still manage to catch a glimpse of his abs as his t-shirt slides up his stomach. Is that a new tattoo? Did I miss it at the party?
When did he get so… yummy?
"Shit, Val, is it too much?" He lowers his arms.
Yes, lose the shirt. It's definitely too much. "Huh?"
"The museum? There's explicit shit there. In an educational context, but still."
"Oh, no, I don't think so."
"You sure? 'Cause I don't mind skipping," he says.
"No, I think it's okay. But thanks," I say.
"We can leave if it's—"
"Dare—"
"Yeah?" he asks.
"I appreciate you looking out for me."
"But?" he asks.
"Can you take it down a notch or two? I'm a big girl. If I need a break, I'll ask." I don't even blink at the suggestion of my size. Sure, I mostly wear plus-size attire. What's it matter, at this particular moment?
When I was younger, I thought it meant men wouldn't be interested. Then, for two years, I wished it meant that. But it's not the case. Sure, I'm not everyone's type, but no one is. Most guys don't mind a little extra padding. Some are even into it. Too into it.
But hey, I'm not worried about what some random jerk thinks (a lot of guys think I'm easy because I have big boobs and a big butt). I'm seducing my roommate.
"I'm working through stuff," I say. "I have to actually face some of that stuff."
"There's a wall of dildos."
"Even so," I say.
"And a vagina chair."
"Well, that's just sensible." I try to take the tone back to teasing.
His voice lightens. "I'm thinking about getting one for the Inked Love waiting room."
"Oh my god." A laugh spills from my lips. "Can you imagine?"
"It would fit right in with the pink string lights."
"And draw absolutely no attention from the residents of Santa Monica." The beach city is liberal, overall, but it has a family values streak too. The hipster coffee shop next door might love the vagina chair. The company that rents the space to the guys at Inked Love? Not so much.
"Absolutely." He smiles and offers his hand. "Can you be ready in ten?"
"Sure."
"Wear something hot. I convinced Archie to come."
Disappointment fills my chest. Which is silly. I asked him to help with this mission. I'd just rather start tomorrow and spend tonight with Dare. Just the two of us, touring Barcelona. I force a smile anyway. Okay, not quite a smile. More of a neutral expression. "How'd you do that?"
"Trade secret." He mimes zipping his lips. "You need help with the outfit?"
"You're offering me fashion help?" I'm not that hopeless. I wear cute stuff.
"You have a problem with my style?"
My eyes go to the v of his t-shirt. The hint of the locked heart on his chest. I still remember the day he showed it off. Really, Dare, a locked heart? Why not write I'm a cliché on your forehead?
So you don't like it?
Did I say that?
So you love it?
Maybe.
Then say it.
It's perfect for you.
"You know you look good," I say. "But you wear the same outfit every day."
"There are subtle differences. And it's not fashion. It's male perspective."
I can highlight my assets while downplaying my less conventional appeal. Boobs, basically. I know men like boobs. Skirts too. That easy access thing. Usually, the idea of easy access makes me cringe—what an unsexy way to put things—but there's something appealing about the mental image of a guy slipping his hand under my skirt, between my legs.
No.
Not a guy.
Dare.
No. Not going there. "I think I know the gist."
"The gist, maybe, but not the depths of our depravity." He looks around the room until he spots the closet. "Let me see the choice. I'll close my eyes if you change."
