Page 31 of Flirty Thirty

Oh sweet lord, is it hot in here?Yes, like that for example.

Thought I’d try something else for a change.

Small talk?

No,he answers in a simple text before another follows.Why don’t you want to get married?

This again?

For curiosity sake. I promise I won’t ask again.

I contemplate my answer, starting my text and erasing it multiple times before I land on what the truth is. Because honestly, the deep rooted reason is a little embarrassing to admit. I spent the better half of my twenties guilty of one of the seven deadly sins in particular—envy. Julie and Jim had found their life partners so quickly it seemed. Holland was married before it was even legal to drink. Clearly on the outs having never gotten to that level of commitment, my thoughts went down wretched paths. When I wasn’t insulting my own personality or body type, I thought horrible things about the people I loved most. As in, “if she can find someone, why can’t I?” That sort of thing.

I hated it. I was a bitter, jealous girl who needed to stop and smell the roses. When I did, and found out all the things I had—work, sleeping in, an allowance to be selfish with my time, independence—I realized I wouldn’t dare givethosethings up. And with everyone coming to me to vent about married people and parenting problems, I count myself very lucky.

I suppose when it didn’t happen for me as quickly as it had for my siblings, I convinced myself that I never really wanted it in the first place.

It worked so well that you still don’t want it, even if you have the chance for it in the future?

Yep.I bite away a grin and take a look out the balcony window next to the bed. The soft, transparent drapes bristle in the slight night wind.Though I do admit, so far the fake married life isn’t so bad. ;)

Good. My evil plan is working.A pause, and then another message.Any chance I’ve convinced you on actual marriage yet? ;)

Persistence must be part of his advertising training.I don’t want the fiancé, kids, adult thing right now.

Well, let me know if you ever do. Because I would fiancé you so hard.

I roll to my back again, laughing at the playfulness I can sense in his text tone. If the walls weren’t so thick, I imagine I’d be able to hear him chuckling as well.

We spend the next ten minutes, thirty minutes, oh… it’s been two hours chatting, minus the breaks when we both showered—in separate bathrooms—and when he got a call from his brother. I fluff the pillow and check the clock on the nightstand, telling myselfagainthat I really should get to sleep, even though I can’t imagine sleeping with my lady bits tingling like they are. Perhaps that shower should’ve been a cold one.

I should try to sleep now,I type, but it takes me a minute to actually send it.

Likewise. Though I doubt I’ll resist the urge to keep talking to you.

A sleepy, goofy grin slides onto my lips.Good luck with that. Goodnight. :)

Night, beautiful.

I stare at the texts, even scrolling through our conversation and reliving the evening again before I finally shake myself out of it and plug the phone in on the nightstand. Kat pounces up by my head, taking her usual spot on top of my hair to sleep. This is complete madness; all of it. The room itself as I let my sleepy eyes wander around it once more before I snuggle into the foreign pillows is enough to make me question my sanity. These things don’t happen in real life, let alone to someone as insignificant as me. Successful, sexy, Pitt-in-his-prime kind of man, who is not just that, but also fun, unpredictable, andadorable, is my pretend husband while we play house in his billionaire buddy’s home. Call the Hallmark channel; I have an idea for them.

I spin around in the sheets, causing Kat to give me an irritated look before she settles back down on a vacant pillow. With how late it is and the extreme comfort of this mattress, I’d have thought the moment I closed my eyes I’d drift off into wet dreams. Instead my fantasies are keeping me wide awake, and they are aching to be played out.

I clench my thighs together and try to sing an unsexy mantra in my head. TheGo Eat Wormssong I learned as a kid should work, but it doesn’t. When I forget one simple lyric, my traitorous mind slides back into the memory of Cooper’s lips on mine outside his truck just the other night. His beard was scruffier then, and I wonder how it will feel now that it’s a bit more trimmed. That peck of a kiss he gave me earlier wasn’t nearly long enough for me to tell.

“Gar,” I grumble, twisting again in the sheets, burying my face ear-deep into the pillow. My fingers curl into the feathers as I try to suffocate the thoughts out of me. When I come closer toactuallysuffocating, I pull my face free and sit up on my knees. I blow a stray strand of hair from out of my eyes, sounding more horse than human. It’s no use. If I’m going to get any sleep I’m going to have to alleviate some tension.

I look around the room, purely for instinctive reasons. It’s been a while since I’ve done this. So long in fact, that poor B.O.B has a layer of dust on him. I haven’t been this aroused since I saw a preview of Alexander Skarsgard in that very shirtless movie he starred in.

I let out a huff, grabbing at the hem of my tank top and pulling it over my head. Tom’s sleepy growl vibrates the bed, reminding me that I’m not exactly alone. Not that my cats care if I play with myself, but I still can’t get into the zone knowing that at any second a ball of fur could rub up against my leg.

Completely topless, I build a pillow fort around each of my cats, leaving me very little room—but enough room—to plop down on my back and run my hands over my bare stomach.

His hands are rougher, I think, disappointed that my too small and too soft hands can’t convince me that he’s the one who will be doing the touching. I’d also like to think that he wouldn’t be frowning at the plushness of my stomach, the padding around my waistband, the stretch marks that we both know didn’t come from a baby. I’ve always considered myself on the plus side, and if I’m being honest, I’ve contributed it to my single status. Telling myself that I don’t want marriage anyway helps make that decision feel in my control.

Ugh, this is why I’m no good at pleasuring myself. I can’t shut my damn mind off long enough to get there.

I let my fingers trail up to my breasts, taking a deep breath and letting it out. My mind cleanses all the insecure details and drifts off to Cooper and his heavenly blue eyes and the way his mouth moved when he called me gorgeous.

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