He slaps his hand over the surface of the water, disturbing his pile of bubbles. “That’s fucked-up. Making sure you were satisfied should have been his number one priority.”
“I guess I can’t really blame him,” I say, shifting in my seat. “He was a busy guy, being a doctor and all.” I withhold the fact that Seth also had a fiery grudge against sex toys for some reason, because the poor bugger thought I was supposed to get off on his skill set alone （lol）。
He gives me a horrified look. “Um, no. Being busy isn’t an excuse to be selfish in bed.”
I toss my palm to the sky, growing increasingly frustrated. Not over this conversation, necessarily, but over the stark reality of what I put up with. What I thought was normal. “I don’t know, Trevor. Maybe I just wasn’t great in bed. Maybe he just wanted to get it over with.”
Trevor’s jaw tics as he stares moodily into the middle distance in the space behind my shoulder. “I sincerely doubt that, Tara.” That statement rolls off his tongue with so much ease, a dull tension thrums between my thighs.
I shift in my seat, reminding myself he’s just being nice. As usual. “Either way, my point still stands. After a while, passion fades.”
He shakes his head in haughty disagreement. “No. Nope. Just because you’re in a long-term relationship doesn’t mean you stop having sex.”
“It absolutely does. Ask any stable, long-term couple. Lack of regular sex is practically a rite of passage.”
“Wow. You’re making long-term relationships sound so appealing,” he quips. “Sign me up.”
“The cuddling makes the lack of sex worth it,” I assure him. “Wouldn’t you rather cuddle with . . . say . . . Kyla than bang some random?”
His eyes widen at the mention of his flight attendant ex-girlfriend. After keeping tabs on her Instagram on Trevor’s behalf, which is full of all her extensive travels, I discovered she’s returning to Boston in a few days. I brought this to his attention and spent the better part of last night convincing him to DM her. Finally, he caved and typed Hi. Lucky for him, I was there to peer-review his texts to ensure he didn’t use too many periods so as to come across too harsh.
They agreed to meet up for drinks when she comes back to the city next week. It’s hard to tell whether he’s excited about it or not.
“It’s not as bad as you’re making it seem,” I continue while he distracts himself with bubbles. “It’s kind of like . . . If you eat Pop-Tarts for breakfast every day for years. You still like Pop-Tarts. You’re still attracted to Pop-Tarts. But you don’t feel this carnal urge to devour them every day.”
He smirks. “This is why I switch it up. Smoothies, cereal, omelets. Maybe you should try it sometime. Break out of your comfort zone.”
I’m about to scrunch my nose at the thought of a stranger’s naked body over mine, but I stop myself. Maybe Trevor has a point. Why the hell shouldn’t I switch things up? Maybe a meaningless hookup with a total stranger is just what I need to distract me from my lack of success with my exes and this ridiculous crush on Trevor.
Crystal used to swear by casual sex, claiming Tinder hookups were therapeutic. I never believed her, but maybe I’ve been overly stubborn. Based on the sounds I’ve heard coming from Trevor’s room, perhaps it’s high time I find out what I’m missing.
“You know what? I’m gonna do it,” I say, abruptly launching from the water.
Trevor blinks. “What? Have toast tomorrow instead of a Pop-Tart?”
“No. I’m gonna have a one-night stand!”
? chapter eighteen
TREVOR BALKS AT the mere suggestion, his laugh echoing into the cold night air in a plume of vapor. “I was just kidding about the breakfast metaphor.”
“No. You make a good point.” I retrieve my towel with the renewed energy of a bad bitch on a mission. “I don’t switch it up enough. I’ve never had a one-night stand before. I’ve never even touched the penis of a dude whose middle name I don’t know. But I hear it’s liberating.”
He follows me out of the hot tub. “It is . . . But you don’t like new things. You said yourself you hate the idea of casual sex.”
“I mean, I’ve never actually tried it. How can I proclaim to dislike something I’ve never tried?”
“But what about your exes? You still have Daniel. What if he’s the One?”
“Daniel is a long-term play. I’m still trying to find a way to track him down,” I say with a dismissive eye roll. As of yet, Daniel is entirely unsearchable online （not even a deceased grandparent’s obituary to be found）。 I’ve actually contemplated draining my meager savings to hire a private investigator. “I need something more immediate.”
“I guess—”
“We’re going on the prowl tonight. You’re my wingman.” The badass, empowering beginning of “WAP” plays in my mind as I toss my towel over my shoulders like a cape.
He groans, shivering as he pats himself dry with his own towel. “As in going out? Why don’t you just use a hookup app like a normal human?”
“Because. I tried it and it wasn’t for me.”
“Do I even get a say in this?” Trevor asks.
“No,” I call over my shoulder as I head inside. “But it’ll be worth your while. I’ll do all the cleaning for the next two weeks.”
“I’ve heard that before,” he groans.
Turns out, plotting your wardrobe and makeup choices is ten times harder when you plan to end the night getting hot and heavy with a stranger instead of a pint of Ben & Jerry’s. The half hour spent in the shower carefully shaving and exfoliating better be worth it.
By the time I finally emerge from my room, club-ready, Trevor is still lying on the couch where I left him, his eyes closed like he’s dreading impending doom but is willing to give in. At the creak of the floor under my footsteps, he cracks a lid.
Mouth agape, he gives me a judgy once-over, taking in my trusty little black dress—the only college-era dress that still looks remotely flattering. It’s short, many fingers above the knees, with a daringly low scoop back that prevents me from wearing a real bra. His eyes linger over my bare legs, to which I generously applied a vanilla shimmer cream.
“You look . . . uh, nice,” he says, his tone obligatory as he fights to summon the words, like someone complimenting their granny’s new living room lamp. This only serves to underscore the importance of this mission: to stop having errant sexual thoughts about Trevor. And, of course, sexual liberation and all that jazz.
“Thanks,” I say dryly, chucking my duffel bag onto the floor. I get on hands and knees to search the bowels of the front closet for my black heels. Of course they’re hiding in the very bottom.
“What’s with the duffel bag?”
I stand, trusty heels in hand. “It’s an overnight bag. Brought some makeup and a change of clothes.”
“Why would you bring a change of clothes to the club?”
“Just in case. What if my hookup wants to hang out tomorrow?”
He runs both hands down his stubble in exasperation. “Tara, this is a bad idea. You do not, under any circumstances, hang out the next day. That defeats the entire purpose of a one-night stand.”