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“Where are you going?” he asks.
“I’m not the one who skipped class. I want this tower cleaned as high as you can reach. Next week, we’ll get you a ladder.”
“I heard Dad say you were crazy. I didn’t believe him.”
“Scrub, scrub.” I turn to Molly. “And that’s how you handle men.”
“That’s not how you handle my dad.”
“Trust me, if I could lock him in this tower and have my way with him, I would.” I stop suddenly, realizing my words sounded worse than I intended.
Actually, it doesn’t sound like a bad idea.
Molly doesn’t even think twice about my statement. Her young mind isn’t tarnished.
Mine, however, is.
And now, all I can think of is a tied-up Rob.
I need to meet a man. Fast. Because I’m starting to get some thoughts, and mounting Rob Bronson isn’t a good one.
CHAPTERTHIRTEEN
“Look who’s back on this side of the state,” Melissa sings as we walk into Beans and Leaves—a coffee shop near her business, Lavish Events, a wedding planning and design firm she co-owns with Jillian in Greenwood Village.
“I feel like I’ve been to every corner of Connecticut over the past week. From Newbury to Castleton and out to the country, I’ve certainly been racking up the miles.”
“Have you been missing the luxuries of being in a real town?” she asks as we get in line.
“I’m actually liking being on the ranch. It’s nice. Quiet. I get a lot of reading done. Walks are great. I had to come back though because I’m leading a kickboxing class tonight and my mailbox is overflowing both at work and at home.”
I sift through my bag and take out the stack of mail I collected this afternoon. I toss the junk mail and keep anything that looks important.
Melissa takes a step forward in line. “I bet it’s great because Rob is at work all day. Nights must be miserable.”
“Not really. Rob is so ornery at times; it’s fun to push his buttons.”
“Hold up. Does this mean you’re enjoying playing house with him?”
“Don’t make it sound sexier than it is. Although … I did send him a risqué picture of my tatas.”
“You sent him a boob pic?” Melissa states loudly, just in time for us to step up to the register.
The barista looks positively frightened.
I ignore my friend’s outburst and place my order. “Brown sugar espresso, iced, shaken.”
“Decaf vanilla macchiato with oat milk, please. And a decaf caramel Frappuccino,” Melissa orders.
We pay for our coffees and step toward the pickup line.
“Okay, so please explain why you sent him a topless photo.”
“Total accident. Death by AirDrop.”
“You know what Sigmund Freud says—there’s no such thing as an accident.”
“Freud didn’t have access to a touch screen device and a self-facing camera.”
