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If helping one woman get a job can impact so many people, it’s justifiable, right?
But will Trinity see it that way?
Especially now that it’s obvious that Ian is attracted to Savannah?
There are so many ways this could go wrong, I don’t even know how to unpack it all.
All I can do is hope that Trinity will understand when I get back to my condo and try to explain it.
Unfortunately, when I get home, she’s gone.
nine
TRINITY
I wake up in bed alone to the sound of a door closing.
I lay there in bed for a bit, luxuriating in Martin’s high thread-count sheets and enormous bed, before it occurs to me to wonder where he went.
The alarm clock beside his bed tells me it’s not long after nine. Not horribly early.
As a chicken owner, I’m usually an early riser myself, since I need to let them out of their coop and feed them first thing. This morning however—between the coziness of Martin’s closet and the blackout curtains he drew closed in the night—my birds must think it’s the dead of winter and that the sun isn’t up yet. I haven’t heard so much as a peep from them.
Seriously. Who has blackout curtains at home?
And an alarm clock beside his bed?
Gah. Martin is a proper adult. I bet he has an accountant. Maybe even a laundry service.
Am I really prepared to be with a man who is … such a man?
Um … if how wet I got just thinking about him is any indication, then yes. I definitely am.
Gawd. Last night was … Mind blowing.
I didn’t know …
I mean, sure, I’ve read my share of smutty romance novels, mostly when I was younger and my time wasn’t monopolized by stodgy academic papers with titles like, “Depression, the autonomic nervous system, and the effects of PTSD.”
But here’s the thing: when you’re twenty, reading about a guy who knows how to find your clit and hit your g-spot, that all seems just as much a fantasy as that shapeshifting dragon and the seven-foot alien who can somehow sleep with a woman without her needing an episiotomy. It might be hot, but is it believable?
No. Not when you’re messing around with over-eager twenty-year-olds. Or maybe I was just with the wrong guys?
Who knows. My point is this: being with Martin last night was a revelation.
Clearly there are untold benefits to being with a man who is a proper adult.
I stretch, and sit up, suddenly eager to hunt down said man and figure out what else I didn’t know about how great sex could be.
I check in on my hens to verify they’re still sleeping—they are. A quick survey of the condo reveals a guest bedroom and an office, but no Martin. Though, seriously? A single income household and he can afford a three-bedroom condo with a view of the lake? Is he also Batman?
Maybe he went out for coffee? Seems unlikely since the scent of freshly brewed coffee hangs in the air. So what are the chances he’s familiar with my favorite French bakery that’s only a few blocks from here and he’s going to bring me croissants?
I think my uterus just spasmed at the thought.
Or … oh, god … maybe he went out for a run or something horrible? He’s fit and clearly has a healthier relationship with carbs than I do, given that I ate all the fries yesterday. He could be a runner. I will endeavor to survive being with a man who is a runner. Surely I can make that sacrifice.
There’s a fantasy already playing in my head of him driving us around with one of those obnoxious 26.2 stickers on our car when I head to the kitchen in search of the origin of the coffee fumes. That’s when I see it.
