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I’ve had enough sex to last several lifetimes. Sometimes I think I would be happy closing up shop—the shop being my vagina—for good. And then other times, I think I’d miss it.
I’ve been missing it lately.
Is that why I agreed to go away with Max?
I look up from my phone to see Max staring at me with that mischievous gleam in his dark eyes. It’s almost like he knows what I’m thinking about.
My cheeks heat at the thought of him reading my mind.
“Finished with your busywork?” he asks.
“I do more than busywork.”
“I’m sure you do, but I’m also pretty positive that you’re not yet totally comfortable with me and are trying to keep busy, so you don’t have to talk to me.”
It is possible that the man can read my mind.
I make a production of slipping my phone back into my purse. “What would you like to talk about?” I ask politely.
“Many things, but now you’re off the hook because we’re here. Time to shop.”
I doubt Max knows he just quoted Pretty Woman.
The driver pulls up to the mall doors and Max manages to dart out and over to my side to open the door before the driver.
I’m a little impressed by his manners.
He lets me walk through the sliding automatic doors of the mall as well. “Come here often?” he jokes.
“Actually, no,” I admit. “I don’t take a lot of time to shop.”
His gaze trails over me. “Someone does an amazing job making you look good, though.”
“Tell me how you know Marcus,” I ask when Max is confined to a changing room trying on three suits, all of which I chose.
The salesperson helped, but I gave him the parameters—destination wedding in a warm climate, possibly on a beach—and I made the decision of the final three.
Max stood by with a bemused expression as I dealt with the salesman.
And now I wait outside the changing cubicle—not a great one for a store with such expensive clothes.
I have the money to buy everything in here, but I still can’t get past the feeling I don’t belong. That I’m still the little girl pulling up the cushions on the couch to find spare change to buy a snack after dance class. The young teenager doing math assignments and writing essays for her classmates, and charging them for it so she could buy new dance shoes.
The seventeen-year-old who first took her shirt off on stage so she could buy her little sister a new dress.
That girl is gone, but old wounds run deep and I still have a hard time fathoming that I can afford to be in here.
Trying to disappear from these thoughts, I check my email but Tana has everything under control. As a rule, I don’t use social media, so there is nothing to doom-scroll as I wait.
I watch the curtain that keeps the rest of the store from getting a glimpse of Max changing. A curtain that isn’t exactly pulled tight, leaving an inch-wide gap.
And when you stand where I am, you can see right through the gap.
Of course I look away, but not before I catch sight of Max’s boxer-brief-clad ass as he buttons the shirt.
There might be burritos on his ass.
I look up—over—anywhere but—
