Tequila + you best friend + your bedroom = um, whoopsie?
Don’t sleep with your best friend.
Take it from me. I did it. And it was awful.
I-wish-the-tequila-made-me-forget kind of bad.
The problem is, Luke has forgotten. He swears that he can’t remember a thing about that night beyond the trays of tequila shots being set on the tables.
Except I can’t forget. I can’t forget how good his hands felt until I fell over and hit my hip on the dresser, and I sure as hell can’t forget the entire two minutes of tap-tap-squirt.
Awkward. Embarrassing. And the new subject of a couple of dirty lucid dreams.
But I have no intention of telling him what we did. Nothing good comes from telling your best friend he’s the worst guy you’ve ever slept with.
Which makes the tequila on my birthday a very, very bad idea…
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Have you ever walked into a store and had to ask where the lady section is?”
I paused, my grip on the fridge door firm, and turned to him. I simply blinked. I wasn’t going to justify that with an answer.
“It took three people before a poor woman at the customer service desk took pity on me and walked me to the tampon aisle,” he went on, oblivious to my death stare. “She hovered over me for a second and I started fucking sweating, Aspen. Sweating.”
I bit my lip and moved the ingredients for his sandwich over to the board on the island.
“I almost dropped my phone trying to find the photo you sent me, and when I finally brought it up, I was so fucking confused I stood there like a lame damn duck for five minutes before she came back to help me like she knew I was a total idiot.”
Was it wrong that I was way more amused about this than anything else? A part of me told me I should feel bad, but…
“Did you know there are tons of those things? The boxes are all different. There are different brands. Different sizes. Different… absorbency levels.” He shuddered, his wide, muscled shoulders shaking with his cringey thought. “For flows and stuff.”
“I shop there regularly. I am aware.”
“Not that fucking regularly if you sent me to buy them,” he muttered. “Anyway, the nice lady who was trying her best not to laugh at the idiot in the sanitary products aisle asked me who I was buying them for. My mom, my sister, my girlfriend…”
I chopped the lettuce.
“When I told her it was for my best friend, she looked at me funny for a minute before nodding. Then, she dragged me over to the aisle with the candy and told me that Twizzlers went well with tampons. I was so confused I didn’t question her, so here.” He lifted a small bag from the stool next to him and tossed it in my direction. “You’re the proud owner of eight packets of Twizzlers.”
“Oooh, Twizzlers!” I dropped the knife and dove into the bag, pulling out all the long, red packets. “This is like heaven!”
“Dude.” Luke leaned forward and held his hands out. “My sandwich?”
“Geez, who’s on their period? You or me?” I put the candy down and went back to making his sandwich. “You should have saved the Twizzlers until after you got your food.”
“Rookie mistake.” He shook his head. “Please don’t ever ask me to buy you tampons again. I’m not sure my ego or reputation can take it.”
“Your reputation got shot to shit on your twenty-first when you mooned the mayor in the town square,” I reminded him.
“And I haven’t mooned anyone since,” he replied. “My pants now stay firmly on when I drink.”
About the Author: Emma Hart
Emma Hart is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of over thirty novels and has been translated into several different languages.
She is a mother, wife, lover of wine, Pink Goddess, and valiant rescuer of wild baby hedgehogs.
Emma prides herself on her realistic, snarky smut, with comebacks that would make a PMS-ing teenage girl proud.
Yes, really. She's that sarcastic.
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