Claire: Are we just going to ignore the fact that Iris brought a fake girlfriend to the pool today?
Iris: Ideally, yes
Astrid: Oh thank god. I’ve got so many questions
Iris: Ah, so you’re the name-changing culprit
Delilah: No that was me. Queerly
Jordan: She’s cute, Iris
Claire: So cute. SO WHY IS SHE FAKE?
Iris: Easy killer
Claire: The question stands
Iris: I think you mean queerstion
Jordan: Doesn’t exactly roll off the tongue
Delilah: Speaking of tongues, are you fake fucking too?
Claire: Babe
Astrid: Delilah
Delilah: It’s a valid queerstion!
Iris sighed, then tapped out a quick explanation about the play and Stevie’s ex. The group erupted in congratulations at her playing Beatrice, which Iris had to admit, felt pretty nice, but then they got back down to the real business at hand, because of course they did.
Delilah: So you’re Stevie’s hero
Iris: It’s mutually beneficial
Astrid: Are you really that desperate for romantic content?
Delilah: Nice choice of words
Astrid: Did I accidentally go all Isabel again?
Jordan: A bit, babe
Astrid: Sorry
Iris pressed her fingers into her eyes.
Iris: Look it’s fine. Stevie’s nice and we’re helping each other out, that’s all this is
A flash of Stevie’s mouth, her fingers like silk on Iris’s bare back . . .
“Fuck,” Iris said, squeezing her thighs together and sitting up in bed. She tapped out a quick good night to the group, then turned her phone off. She sat there, breathing heavily for a second, before she grabbed her laptop from her nightstand and opened it up to her Tegan McKee draft.
Which consisted of all of two words.
Tegan McKee . . .
She stared at the screen, but the only thing in her head was slow-dancing and the slow slide of cotton over skin . . . a mouth that tasted like summer and mint.
She tossed her computer aside and got out her iPad instead, opening her drawing program and starting a new file. She slipped her stylus from its holder and started drawing. Quick strokes, very little planning. Just lines, arches, shading to process her thoughts. She’d always used drawing and illustrations to do this—reorder the world in her head, expel her worries, her fears, her hopes. When she was a kid, she’d spend hours drawing everything in her life—her family, Claire and Astrid, her first kiss. In college, when her art turned into something a bit more practical—a planner she created for Astrid to help with her stress level—Paper Wishes was soon born. Still, she always came back to the blank page when the shit went down. She had file after file chronicling her friendships, Claire’s daughter, Ruby, at her first birthday, Iris’s breakup with Grant, Astrid’s doomed engagement with that shit boot Spencer, Claire and Delilah when they first got together.
Jillian.
Now, as she drew, she could feel the restlessness settling, her mind quieting as a figure formed on the page—shaggy curls, a striped crop top, and plaid pants. Iris added more details. Lush as a sultry background. The lacquered bar Stevie was leaning against when Iris first saw her, that slightly terrified yet hungry look in Stevie’s eyes.
It took a bit of time, the night creeping into early morning, but when Iris finished the last stroke, she had a complete drawing.
A scene.
She blinked at the black-and-white illustration, already thinking of the colors she’d use, even words she’d pair with it. She never reached the color phase of her drawings, using them mostly as an emotional outlet, but this one . . .
She stared down at Stevie’s face, that lovely mouth slightly parted. Excitement zinged through her like electricity, that familiar, creative-spark feeling, so Iris saved the file as “Meet-Cute” and exited out of the program. Then she grabbed her computer again, opened up her novel drafting program, and finally started to write.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
“HOLY SHIT, IS this real?” Iris asked.
Stevie watched as Iris gazed up at the modern-style white house, all glass and reclaimed wood and ninety-degree angles, her mouth hanging open adorably. The breeze blowing through the palm trees was sultry and warm, and Stevie could just make out the sound of the Pacific rolling behind the house.
“It’s real,” Stevie said, smiling at her over their rideshare’s roof. Their driver popped the trunk and lifted out their luggage, then promptly took off down Yerba Buena Road. Stevie rolled both suitcases toward where Iris stood on the cobbled driveway. “Welcome to the Riveros’ ridiculously opulent seaside mansion.”
“I’ll take ridiculous,” Iris said. “I’ll take this kind of ridiculous every day.”
Stevie laughed then took advantage of that fact that Iris was still staring up at the house to . . . well, stare at Iris. Not that she hadn’t been doing the same thing all morning whenever she could, since the moment Iris picked her up to head to the airport, and then again throughout their entire two-and-a-half-hour flight.
She just couldn’t seem to stop.
Stevie wasn’t sure if she was staring because Iris was beautiful—she was, completely radiant with her bright hair in a fishtail braid, a grass-green sundress flowing over her freckled skin—or because she was still trying to process the last time they were together.
Their . . . lessons.
She and Iris had only texted a few times since, discussing trip details, packing lists. Once, Iris had asked about a certain line in Much Ado, and she and Stevie had then watched the Emma Thompson movie while texting constant comments and ideas. But neither woman had said anything about the kissing, the shirtless pressing.
The moaning.
God, the moaning—Stevie didn’t think she’d ever forget the sound Iris made when she’d slid her leg between Iris’s thighs. It was gorgeous. Raspy and hot and had promptly sent Stevie in a tailspin of too many thoughts and not enough time to slow them down.
In the last week, Stevie had relived that sound over and over again, and she wasn’t sure she could ever admit to anyone how many times she’d gotten herself all worked up, underwear completely drenched in seconds, just thinking about it. On the one hand, the lesson Iris guided her through seemed to have worked—she’d felt more relaxed as they’d kissed, she was able to undress them both without needing to dry heave. On top of that, the moan Iris emitted was real, and Stevie felt a surge of pride and hope that one day she might actually be able to do that to someone in an organic situation that would end in actual sex.
On the other hand . . .
Yeah, Stevie couldn’t stop staring at Iris.
Maybe she just needed to work on this a little more—if Iris making sounds of pleasure threw her off, maybe she simply needed Iris to help her through a lesson where there were . . . more moans of pleasure?
Jesus, she sounded absurd. She yanked her gaze from Iris and scrubbed her face with one hand. She one hundred percent had to stop thinking about moaning. For many reasons.
Not the least of which was the fact that Adri, Vanessa, and Ren were already at the Riveros’—they’d flown down yesterday to get things set up—and Iris and Stevie had to put on their fake dating game faces. The rest of the principal cast was arriving tomorrow, which gave Stevie a bit of time with her friends to settle into . . . whatever the hell she and Iris were.