For the past year and a half I’d abstained from any sextra-curricular activities. Which was completely out of character for me. I enjoyed sex. A lot.
I hadn’t let the fact that the first time I’d tried to put some giddy in my up, I’d been rejected before I’d even gotten on the horse. That didn’t stop me from getting back in the saddle again. And thankfully, Hudson Reed had been the one and only man that had ever turned down the chance to go for a ride.
I’d always known what I wanted and wasn’t afraid to ask for it. I subscribed to the philosophy that if you want to do something—and you’re not hurting yourself or someone else—then, what the hell? Go for it. You only live once, so why deny yourself the pleasure this world has to offer?
The first three years at college, I’d enjoyed living that philosophy to the fullest, and I’d had a damn good time doing it. The problem was, sometime around the middle of my senior year I’d stopped having the desire to indulge. It wasn’t that I’d lost my sex drive. That was still going strong. The thing that had changed was my interest in hooking up with someone just because I was attracted to him. I started wanting more than shallow, purely physical, no-substance encounters.
I wanted to want to eat breakfast with the person I spent the night with. Hell, I wanted to spend the night in the first place. So, I’d started to be more discerning in my choice of horizontal mambo partners. Since then, all of my dances had been solo performances.
“Here you go, ladies.” Bryson set our drinks. “Let me know if you need anything else.”
An orgasm would be nice.
“Thanks.” Cara smiled brightly.
When he moved away from the table her smile remained in place as she asked between her teeth, “How could there have been no chemistry? He’s so…”
“Full of chemistry?” Destiny offered.
“Yes.” Cara’s shoulder length blonde hair bobbed up and down as she nodded.
“I don’t know? But there wasn’t.” Disappointment filled my chest at the memory of the kiss that had ignited less sparks than a broken lighter.
About six months ago I’d come down to the Tipsy Cow alone, thanks to the fact that my brothers had stolen my two best friends. All of our life it had been the three of us. We were known around town as Charlie’s Angels, a nickname we’d coined ourselves in the first grade. Then, last summer, JJ had married and knocked up Destiny, and Trace had liked it so much he put a ring on Cara. Their wedding was going to be sometime this summer. I’d lost both my fellow Angels within just a few short months. Sure, our childhood dream of all being sisters was actually coming true, but I kind of felt like that was a consolation prize for the fact that I had no one to go to the bar with on random Tuesday nights.
Instead of whining or crying about it, I’d decided to take a page from Beyoncé and go all “Independent Woman.” At least that’s what the plan was as I’d put on my favorite pair of skinny jeans, new cowboy boots, and my red shirt—so low cut it was practically illegal—before heading down to the local watering hole.
That independent spirit lasted for about two minutes after I realized that going to a bar (even in a small town where everyone knows everyone) with no friends to buffer the onslaught of cheesy, borderline offensive pickup lines and drunken passes was about as much fun as a root canal with no anesthesia. But, not one to give up easily, I forced myself to stay and try to enjoy the night out. I’d sidled up to the bar and spent the evening flirting with Bryson. When he announced last call, I’d been shocked at how fast the time had gone.
When the words “Take you home, darlin’?” had fallen from his tempting lips, I’d thrown caution—and my strict no-dating-anyone-in-Wishing Well-city-limits—to the wind. On the way back to my house, as I’d sat beside Bryson, my entire body buzzed with excitement. I was mentally working on what clever-slash-cute way I was going to invite him inside and thanking my lucky stars that I’d taken the time to shave my legs. But when he’d walked me to the door and leaned in for a kiss, the moment our lips touched I’d known that my silky smooth legs weren’t going to be appreciated by anyone but me. Our lip lock had inspired no zippidy in my do da. It wasn’t that he was a bad kisser; it was just that there was no chemistry. He’d felt it, or rather not felt it, too. We’d laughed as we said goodnight.
The really depressing thing was, the no-chemistry encounter was the last action my lips had seen.
“Well, if it’s not going to be him, then let’s come up with some other candidates.” Destiny clapped her hands together.