Page 79 of Harper's Holiday Romance
“That good?”
“Better than I could’ve imagined.” My face burned scarlet. I covered my face with a towel. The embarrassment was magnified tenfold.
“Julia is obsessed with you.” Sarah smirked.
“She’s not obsessed.”
God, I hoped she was.
“Do you think she is? Surely not? Can you imagine if she was? What do you think? What makes you say that?” I needed help.
I curled my knees to my chest in a seated foetal position; it made me feel more comfortable. I pulled nervously at the hairband on my wrist. I desperately wanted my friends to tell me mine and Julia’s whole interaction wasn’t the biggest most glorious mistake I’d ever made.
“She looks at you like I looked at the giant slice of cookie dough cake we had in Manchester,” Sarah confirmed in between large sips of melted strawberry daiquiri.
“She looks at me like I’m a warm gooey piece of cake?” I laughed. “I’m not sure that’s a compliment.”
“Are you kidding?” Sarah frowned. “It’s the biggest compliment. Food is the most essential requirement of human life. I’d love for someone to look at me like I’m a delicious piece of chocolate cake.”
“Okay, if you say so.” I laughed.
“Sounds like she ate you like you were a delicious piece of cake,” Billie pointed out, wriggling her eyebrows unnaturally. There was major emphasis on the ate.
“Billie!”
“Is she wrong? Or did Julia eat your vagina like it was the best thing since my grandmas 2005 Sunday dinners?” Sarah chipped in.
“I’m not sure it’s appropriate to use my vagina and your grandmas Sunday dinner in the same sentence.” I cringed.
“What was so good about your grandmas Sunday dinners?And why 2005?” Billie asked.
“That was the year before my dad fell out with my uncle, so my grandma cancelled Sunday dinners because all they’d do is argue over what Beatles album to play and who should inherit the majority of the house.” Sarah shrugged. She had family issues that were unnecessarily complex. They were the kind of stories you save until you’re three bottles of wine deep on a quiet Saturday night in.
“That was a very specific comparison, but okay, I’ll take your word for the quality of Sunday dinner.” Billie stuck out her hand. “Pass me your phone.”
I shook my head furiously. “Nope.”
“Pass me your phone, Harps.”
“Absolutely not. I don’t trust you.”
The last time Billie had my phone she texted Julia; that was mild. The time before, I was trying to figure out the best way to let someone know I didn’t want to date them anymore. Billie texted the girl saying,I don’t think this is going to work out. Will you pay me back for the drink I bought you last night? I think it’s only fair. She proceeded to send her my bank account details. The girl never replied.
Billie had a way of cutting things off with the simplest of messages. It came from years of unsuccessful dates and the knowledge gleaned from dating men on Tinder who only wanted sex, marriage, or someone to accompany them to their high school reunion.
“I’m not going to text anyone, I swear.” She crossed her heart.
“Fine.” I placed my phone in her hand and hovered over her whilst she clicked onto my photos—
“What are you doing?”
“I knew it!” Billie clicked on the photo I’d taken of Julia that morning on the balcony, right before we’destablished our time was almost up, and proceeded to use every surface of the balcony as a prop in our sexual episode. The edge of the giant bathtub was the perfect soft surface. It was just the right height for maximum penetration, one foot in, one foot up on the glass railing, and—I was horny again.
“Let me see.” Sarah leant over. “Well, well, well—”
“Give me that.” I snatched my phone back.
“This is a new development.” Billie looked at Sarah.
