Page 22 of Blush Crush

“You get those dreamy, cartoon heart-eyes over men who haven’t earned a single one of them. Not every guy deserves access to the softest parts of you. You need to learn how to turn that off. Or at least not hand it over so quickly.”

I raise a brow. “You mean like you?”

“Kind of.” She shrugs. “Until a guy proves to me he isn’t trash, I keep one foot out the door. I’m always ready to walk and forget he ever existed.”

I wish I had her mindset. I really do. But I can’t help myself. I don’t do casual, halfway feelings. I go from zero to a hundred in the span of a single meaningful glance. There is no in-between with me. No cool, detached middle ground where I can just enjoy something for what it is.

The second a guy is kind to me—like, genuinely kind—my brain betrays me. I’m already imagining Sunday mornings and shared grocery lists. I’m mentally trying on his last name, seeing how it fits with mine. I’m naming children who don’t exist and picturing where we’d spend the holidays.

It’s embarrassing.

I don’t mean to do it. I don’t sit there plotting out a wedding board on Pinterest. It just happens.

I’m a hopeless romantic to my core. And it may be my biggest flaw.

“Can we talk about your problems instead of mine? Yours are always more fun.”

A little giggle bubbles out of her, and I just know she has something juicy to tell me.

“Well,” she starts, “speaking of guys, I know I have that rule against dating anyone from work, but there’s this new doctor, and I might have a little flirty thing going on with him. Nothing’s happened, but it could.”

Her skin is flushed, her cheeks red. If I didn’t know better, I’d think we’d been transported back to middle school. Layla was always a little more boy-crazy than me—or maybe just more confident—but either way, growing up she always seemed to be crushing on some new guy, and it was only a matter of time before he became her boyfriend. She gets bored fast, though, so they never lasted very long.

I smile as I roll a ball of cookie dough between my palms. “Tell me everything.”

She lets out a breathy sigh and slumps against my office chair she’s rolled out into the kitchen. “His name is Owen, and he’s from Montana, so he has this whole cowboy accent I can’t get enough of. Picture a rugged cowboy doctor, and that’s Owen.”

“I didn’t realize cowboy doctors were your type.” I laugh.

“I didn’t either, but it’s really working for me. The other day he moved just right in his scrubs, and I swear I got a very clear idea of what he’s working with. And let’s just say…it’s impressive.”

She laughs to herself, and all I can think about is how painful it would probably be to have sex with someone who’s bigger than average. Marcus was well below average, and I thought I was being split in half. It’s the one thing I’ve never related to in romance novels. Probably why I prefer historical romances to contemporary. At least in historical ones, they disguise the description with beautiful language. Meanwhile, in contemporary, when I read something like “giant cock,” all it makes me want to do is crawl in a hole.

I must be making a face, or she can read my mind, because she rolls her eyes at me. “I know it’s hard to imagine, but you’re just going to have to trust me that it can be good. But it can also be not good. It’s really more about whether he knows how to use it.”

Layla loves talking about sex. I, on the other hand, find the entire subject deeply uncomfortable, mostly because I don’t have much to contribute to the conversation.

“I’ll take your word for it.”

“Did you ever use that vibrator I bought you for Christmas last year?”

“Lay!” I screech, glancing around like someone might have heard her.

“What?” she giggles. “It’s just you and me. You don’t have to get all prudish because I said the word vibrator.”

“I’m not being prudish.” My voice is a touch more defensive than I’d prefer. “I just don’t like talking about that stuff.”

“Masturbation is healthy. It’s perfectly normal to explore your body and give yourself pleasure.”

Embarrassment courses through my veins, boiling beneath my skin. I swear she does this on purpose.

“Can we not talk about this?”

“You need to masturbate,” she says loud enough to make me jump. “How are you living your life without orgasms? I just don’t get it. Sometimes it’s like we’re not even related.”

“I’m fine. You’re making this a bigger deal than it is.”

“You don’t date. You don’t have sex. You don’t orgasm. Yet you read nothing but romance novels? I would lose my mind.”