18. A Sex Algorithm
18
A SEX ALGORITHM
Veronica
Since I don’t want to be tempted to check my phone every five minutes for a text from Milo, I jam it to the bottom of my purse as I walk home with StudMuffin. When I reach my apartment, I set the device face down on the kitchen counter, then feed the little guy dinner.
Like a cool, calm gal, I ignore all screens as I change into pajama pants and yank my hair into a messy bun.
Text? What text? I’m not waiting for a stinking text.
Pfft.
Approximately an hour and twenty-six minutes post-orgasm, I head across the hall for some girl time. I’ve got a bottle of wine, some fresh kale from the balcony, and my pup.
And check out my restraint—I’ve only peeked at my texts nine times since I left Throw Me a Bone.
Fine, nineteen.
Okay, ninety-nine times.
But I’m done checking for the night, I swear. I refuse to be Miss Obsessed With a Man. I’m twenty-six and since I haven’t been caught up in a dude’s orbit yet, I’m not going to let dick gravity pull me in tonight.
I set the phone to do-not-disturb mode, then knock on Ellie’s door.
My friend swings open the door and sweeps out an arm, inviting me in. “Let the entertainment begin.”
“I deserve that,” I say as StudMuffin trots over to say hello to Gigi, Ellie’s Chihuahua mix. Gigi snags a stuffed monkey from her toy bucket and noses it his way. As the two get to work shredding the primate in the living room, I join Ellie in her galley kitchen.
“I’ve got olives, three-seed crackers, and an arugula salad. You’ve got the truth serum,” Ellie says, pointing at the wine as she thrusts the bottle opener my way. “Tell me everything that happened on the job today.”
My jitters hit me again in full force. “I was supposed to get a job. I wasn’t supposed to get a lady job ,” I say, then stab the opener into the cork with a huff.
“Oh, honey,” Ellie chides, gently grabbing my wrist. “Never take anything out on the wine. Wine is always our friend.”
“And I’m my own worst enemy.” I meet her warm brown eyes and blurt out, “I’m a magnet, and I’m attracted to trouble.”
With a sympathetic smile, she opens the wine, then pours two glasses. She slides one to me, then takes a drink of hers. “Trouble can be sexy. A lot of us are attracted to it. It’s why bad boys and forbidden romances will always be popular. Not to mention secret office trysts,” she says, then sets down her glass to add the kale to the salad. “Now, give me the goods. Was his hand as good as a toy?”
A shiver rushes down my spine. I dismiss my hot-mess worries for a beat because I’m dying to relive that moment. “It was like . . . he listened to my body,” I whisper, as if speaking the words at full volume will endanger the memory. I’m still amazed at how Milo read the road map of me so easily. “He wasn’t one of those let me show you my best moves kind of guys. It was like he wanted to give me exactly what I wanted.”
Ellie sighs happily. “So he’s like an algorithm who learns your sex preferences.”
I laugh drily. “Yes, Ellie. He finger-fucked me like an AI web browser,” I say, but then my laughter ends. Tension spreads over my shoulders. “But this is bad, isn’t it? I’m practically banging my boss.”
“Practically? Sounds like it was actually ,” she corrects as she grabs forks from the utensil drawer, then hands me one.
“We didn’t have sex,” I insist.
“Whatever helps you sleep at night.” Ellie winks, then snags napkins from the cupboard and lifts her fork like she’s toasting with the utensil. “Bon appétit. Now, take me back to the beginning.”
Because we’re classy, we stand at the counter and eat, forks diving into the same bowl as I tell her the rest of the story.
“. . . And when he made the comment about running a cake shop, it was game on,” I add, then take a drink of the wine. “Chardonnay. The drink of the boss-bangers.”
Ellie’s eyes glimmer. “Ooh, that makes me want to write a TV show called Boss-bangers. I’ll star in it too.”
“I’ll be your story consultant, naturally.”
“Of course you will,” she says. Then her gaze turns thoughtful and a little faraway. Is she unhappy as an actress? Eager for something more? I stop thinking about my complicated situation and zoom in on her.
“Do you want to write as well as act?” I’ve always thought Ellie had many talents. “The stories you tell from the set of Unfinished Business are hilarious. I could see you writing a show about being on a show.”
That reconnects her with the moment. “Maybe I do want to write too. I’m not foolish enough to think I can act forever. It’s hard for women.” Then, her smile grows. “Can we write a TV show about a female dating-columnist superhero? It’ll be called Adventures of a Sexpert. Instead of a sixth sense for a crime about to happen, she’ll get this tingly sensation down her spine when a woman desperately needs a sex toy to come. She’ll have a tool belt full of different dildos, and she’ll literally have to respond right then and there to deliver the right vibe to the woman,” Ellie says.
I set a hand on my heart. “It’s so true—not all heroines wear capes.” We both crack up, and when I stop laughing, I let go of some of the who-am-I-and-what-happens-next nerves. Spending time with Ellie always centers me and reminds me what’s important. Like friendship and career.
Which raises a new question. “Did I mess up again , Ellie? I do work for the guy, and I want to learn from my past career mistakes. Obviously, I screwed up when I sent my column to Agnes and all of McGee Whitney Books. But was it wrong of me to write about Mister Sexy Pants once I started working for him? Does that make me a creeper or something?”
Ellie scoffs. “No! You haven’t mentioned him that much since you started at the flower shop. You mostly wrote about him beforehand. And you two were even sexting before your job interview, so you knew from your convos that he was into you.”
“And Milo’s sex positive,” I add, thinking about our text messages. “He’s not an Agnes Millicent, wigging out over the mere mention of sex and sandwiches. That’s a stroke of good luck.”
Shaking her head, Ellie levels an intense stare my way. “It’s not luck, Veronica. There’s nothing wrong with your column. It’s a part of you, and you don’t have to justify it to anyone. You’re allowed to have a life outside of work. And you never named him. He was an idea in your columns. He wasn’t a traceable man.”
I could kiss her for pointing that out. But it also reminds me that I don’t know how Milo put two and two together.
Except, for the simplest of ways—he clearly read The Virgin Club and figured it out. But he’d be the only one who could connect the dots. He was the only person privy to the other side of the stories—the cake, and the dog lunging at the bike bit, and the flashing of my panties. The details were Easter eggs for him.
Which means I am officially not a creeper.
My defense rests.
But I still want to know everything. When did he discover the posts? What does he think of all the things I’ve shared? Though, I think I know, given the dark and dirty look in his eyes when he admitted he was good with his hands.
“Thanks for listening, Ellie,” I say to my friend. “I definitely needed to talk through all this after the orgasm haze cleared.”
“And I needed to hear the details. Now, tell me. What’s next with Mister Sexy Fingers?”
My stomach flips nervously. “I don’t know,” I say, then return to the food. As we finish the salad, we’re quiet for a few seconds, and in the silence, I can hear my answer. I take a deep breath, then say it out loud. “I like him. I want to see him again. But it’s complicated.” I shrug helplessly as I confess this new feeling, one that’s deeper than sex and stronger than desire. “I don’t want to ruin the dynamics at the store. And let’s say we do it again—do we just go back to being employee and boss?”
Ellie smiles sympathetically. “This job is only temporary though. You’re returning to publishing soon. So if you want more with him, are you truly risking so much?”
We only enjoyed an interlude. Maybe a night together is a reasonable risk after all.
“I do want something ,” I say, shoulders square, chin up. Already I feel lighter. It’s freeing to admit what I want. These last few weeks, I’ve been stressed about the new job, the old job, the future job, the side job.
But I’ve also been wound up about defining what I want after dark.
Now I know precisely what I want.
Milo.
I haven’t slept with anyone yet because I haven’t met someone who excites me this much. The zing I feel with Milo is real. It’s real in bed and out of bed. “But I have no idea if he wants more than one time,” I say.
Ellie squeezes my thigh. “And you won’t know till you tell him you do.”
I shudder. “Now, that’s scarier than admitting I’m the friendly neighborhood virgin.”
Back home, after we’ve finished the wine and done the dishes, I focus on other horrifying things, like my future as an editor. Settling into my spot at the kitchen table, I check job listings in the book business. I’m into my sixth week of exile and, aside from Milo, no one has discovered my secret identity, so I decide to put out the feelers a little sooner than planned. I’ll spit shine my cover letter and then send some emails.
With that decided, I pop onto my balcony, soaking in the warm July air, staring at the few stars I can make out in the city sky. But stargazing is just an excuse. Soon, I check the sidewalk, hoping that Milo might walk by.
I stay like that for several minutes, elbows resting on the railing, watching my mostly quiet block at ten-thirty at night. My phone’s back on, but it remains silent in my pocket. Only a few hours have passed since I saw him. There’s no real rush to hear from him.
Yet my entire column is about taking charge of desires.
And I have things to say to the man.
I take out my phone and start writing things like . . . that was amazing, and I want to see you again, and what you did to me was better than my imagination, and are you free tomorrow night?
I’m typing as the device buzzes. When I see his name pop into my texts, I’m the one buzzing.
Milo: First, is it weird that I think Iris’s baby looks like an old man? Second, how did StudMuffin like his new daycare? Third, the whole time I was visiting the baby, it’s possible my mind was entirely elsewhere.
I’m a little giddy. Okay, a lot giddy. I head inside and snap a shot of my dog sleeping with his tongue sticking out, then attach the pic.
Veronica: First, babies are weird. Second, see attached. Third, where was your mind?
Milo: Top of my list of questions I’d ask a dog if they could talk— Why do you sleep with your tongue out ?
Veronica: What else is on that list?
Milo: Why did you just bark? How long did you actually think I was gone? And can you teach me how to shake like that post-shower?
Veronica: You do indeed keep lists in your head.
Milo: I told you so.
Veronica: Also, the dog water-shake is the ultimate life hack. We would never need towels.
Milo: Except to clean up the water on the floor from the water shake.
Veronica: Curses! We will never be free from the tyranny of towels.
Milo: So true. Also, your dog is cuter than a baby.
Veronica: Well, obvs. And thanks. Yours too.
Milo: And to answer your third question—where was my mind—here goes. For the entire ride to Brooklyn, then the entire time I hung out with Iris, Joel, and Danny, then the entire ride home, I replayed those fifteen minutes we spent right outside my office. Fuck, that was hot, Veronica.
My neck flushes as I replay the evening too. And since he’s being open, I do the same.
Veronica: But I left you hanging. I hope you can forgive me and let me make it up to you.
With a deep breath, I read my very forward note one more time, then brace myself to take a chance. I hit send. He replies in seconds.
Milo: You can make it up to me anytime.
My smile is bigger than the sky. With my phone in hand, I dance around my apartment as I finish getting ready for bed. A few minutes later, when I slide under the sheets, I re-read his last note. It brings the tingles once again.
Except . . .
What now? Do I suggest we make plans for a second time? To “make it up to him”? Is that how flings work? Ugh. My lack of experience is catching up to me. I have no clue what to say, and I don’t want to say the wrong thing. Don’t want to mess up our work relationship or this new situationship. I’ll have to let this simmer overnight.
Veronica: By the way, thanks for being cool about my Wonder Womaning you with my column.
Milo: I should be the one thanking you, Diana Prince. Also, Veronica? I’m about to conk out. I’ll see you tomorrow, but before I crash, did you have a good night?
Oh. My. God. My chest flutters from one simple question.
Veronica: I had a great night.
Milo: Good. Me too.
I feel somewhat better, though I’m not sure I’m any closer to knowing if he’s up for a hot summer fling or if tonight was one time only.
I’ll find out tomorrow morning though. But at least he knows Wonder Woman’s secret identity.
Like I needed any more reasons to find Milo Dawson so damn attractive.