I segue to a text she sent me earlier. “You said you had something to show me?”
A giddy smile takes over her freckled face. She ducks behind the counter, grabs something from a shelf, then slides a glossy sheet of paper to me.
I arch a brow. “What’s that?”
“It’s from a magazine.”
“Oh, those things that used to be paper, but now are digital?”
“Yes, Miss Sassy Pants. I saw it at the dentist’s office. It’s basically an ad for the magazine’s online sister pub—The Dating Pool. It’s having a really cool contest that you should look into.”
“A dating contest? I don’t think so.” I shake my head so fast my hair whips. “Dating and me—we’re not really simpatico these days. Do I need to remind you of the last guy who ghosted me?”
Stella stares down the bridge of her nose at me. “That’s because you like bad boys.”
“Yes, because they also don’t get in the way of little things like, ya know, goals,” I counter. Bad boys have their place on a modern gal’s dating résumé. She just has to remember the heart can hurt just the same when they show their douche colors. “So, considering I’m waist-deep in opening-a-gym goals, I think I’ll avoid dating contests.”
“It’s not a dating contest. It’s an essay contest—with prize money. And you’ve always been good at putting your crazy thoughts and wild ideas into writing. Remember the time you convinced the physical therapy company you worked for to institute Happy Heart Friday? You had that whole pitch for a midday walking break laid out beautifully, and they said yes. Boom—happy hearting at Home Health Solutions was born.”
I sigh contentedly at the memory. Too bad Home Health had to cut back last year, a decision that sent me to Sunshine Living. I don’t think Travis would approve stopping work for a walk, let alone see the benefits of disco bingo.
But that’s yet another reason why I’m trying to open the gym.
Hmm . . . That’s not a bad idea. I wiggle a brow at Stella. “What do you think about disco bingo?”
“For your essay?”
I shake my head. “No, for Sunshine Living.”
“Summer, focus. Just read.” Stella stabs the glossy sheet, and I scan it quickly. The theme is “Lessons Learned.” That does sound right up my alley. “Okay, that’s more interesting. I’m intrigued.”
The bell dings above the door, and a squadron of schoolkids rushes in.
“It’s the cookie lady,” the kids shout.
She warbles a songbird hello to the chattering throng, then in a low voice says to me, “You should definitely enter it.”
“Thank you, cookie lady.” I blow her a kiss, tucking the bag of cookies into my purse.
As I open the door, she waves goodbye, calling out, “Feel free to test Law Number Three of Stella’s Theory.”
I shoot her a sharp stare. She simply smiles and returns her focus to the kids, bug-eyed and gaping at the displays of yummy goodness.
I leave, hearing Stella’s voice in my head as I go.
Stella has a theory about men, and it’s based on her three so-called Immutable Laws.
Law Number One: funny men make great lovers.
Law Number Two: funny and smart men make even better lovers.
Law Number Three: good-looking guys make terrible lovers.
The way Stella explains it, being good in bed is work. It requires skills. It demands talent. It calls for an education in the ways of women.
“That’s why beautiful men are boring in the sack,” she explains when called upon. “I know because I conducted a comprehensive study before I married Henry. And my conclusion? The best-looking men waltz through life on their looks. They never have to work to get a woman in bed, so they don’t care about her pleasure. Therefore, you should never go above a five on the looks scale. And that’s Stella’s theory on how to have a happy vagina.”
As I drink my latte along the way to the grilled cheese shop, I wonder if Oliver’s ever had to work for it.
With those eyes, that face, and that accent, what are the chances? Women flock to him, especially since he’s on all those most-bangable-in-the-city lists. Several years ago, he went to a few galas and premieres with a TV actress, shooting him straight onto the seen-on-the-arm-of pages of the gossip rags. Since then, he’s been spotted with plenty of well-known women, and, come to think of it, he’s not even on the apps.
Hmm. Maybe he doesn’t have to work for it. I bet they line up at his door. Send him perfumed panties in the mail. Leave keys for their hotels at his reception desk.
My shoulders sag. I bet Oliver’s terrible in the sack.
Dreadful.
I bet he kisses like a bore, bangs like a jackhammer, and licks like he’s painting a house.
Then I berate myself for thinking about Oliver’s prowess or lack thereof. Who cares if Chantal the heiress, or Dardania the TV lawyer, or Angelique the model ring him up for dates? Who cares if he takes women to O-town or not? That has no bearing on our friendship.
And that’s what we are. I’ve known the man since we were fourteen, when my mom drove him, Logan, and me to school nearly every day.
I’ve known him since his sister and I helped the boys plan their prom-posals.
I’ve known him since that night a few years ago, when Logan, Stella, Henry, and Oliver took me out for a night on the town to celebrate my recent and nasty breakup. When Douchey Ex himself waltzed into the bar and sauntered over to me, and Oliver pretended to be my new boyfriend.
Draping an arm around me.
