Chapter 6
SIX
LEXI
I’m an idiot.
The Heights’ biggest, horniest idiot.
I’m not the first person to go a few years without getting any action. Surely the rest of them don’t go around humping some guy’s leg just because he’s hot and standing there.
Apparently that’s my criteria now.
Don’t have to like the guy. Don’t even have to be at his place, or mine.
Just standing there looking tall, dark, and delectable is enough for me to start climbing him like a tree, riding him like he was my favorite vibrating mat that I keep in the special armoire in my bedroom.
The way he looked at me, smirking, cocky, knowing exactly what he was doing to rile me up, somehow that only made him hotter, which is really just salt in the wound.
Does he have to be the sexiest man to walk into the Heights and a fucking prick? He could at least have a hideous face to match that awful personality. But no, somehow every flaw on his stupid face makes him even more attractive.
The thought pisses me off and I don’t mean to take my frustrations out on my toys (well, I certainly took them out on my collection until the wee hours of the morning), but as I’m cleaning the vibrating mat, the dildo, and the plug I used last night, I end up being violent in my movements.
Slapping the mat into the bowl of the sink, I scrub at it with the foaming toy cleanser and end up spraying my entire front with suds as I attack it, like it’s the mat’s fault I mistook my new chef’s thigh for it.
The saltiest part of that voice in my head says that the mat didn’t even feel that good now that I’ve had the thickest thigh God’s ever graced this earth with. Muscular, firm, and the way he clenched it right as I was getting close, to push me over the edge?
Fuck him.
No, I shouldn’t fuck him. He should get fucked. By a cactus, or…something else that isn’t me.
The suds splash in my eye.
A wordless scream rips through my throat as I stomp away from the sink and collect the rest of the toys (the ones that didn’t end up doing the trick) from the bedside table in my bedroom.
My collection might be a bit more extensive than your average small-town girl, but when you’re a year and a half from forty, completely out of prospects in your hometown, a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.
In my case, that’s an inordinate amount of silicone.
My libido is only getting stronger with time, and a certain asshole who won’t be named isn’t helping the frustration around here. I had to go through half a dozen toys before I got what I needed.
This can’t keep going this way, I’ll run out of space in my house.
Instead of the lonely woman eaten by her cats, I’ll be known as the woman who got buried alive in her own sex toys.
Having slept in far too late on my Sunday off after such a restless night, I don’t have time for a relaxing bath to calm myself back down. It’s already past noon, and I was due at Rory’s by then.
I make quick work of showering, not giving time to fantasies or drifting fingers across soapy skin—my little skank of a vagina needs to calm herself down after the trouble she got us in—and then spend a few extra minutes doing my four-step routine for my 3A curls.
Normally, I’d throw it up in a ponytail or a claw clip without bothering and get out of here, but today, I need the boost to my self-confidence.
Something that tells me Lexi, you’re a fine bitch and you don’t need Wilder Amante to get you off. Something that’s louder than my kitty purring.
Frizzy hair ain’t it.
The fact that he’s still under my skin, almost a full week after that mishap in the walk-in, just means I need to remember I’m the one in charge here, not him. Of the restaurant, and my sexual pleasure. I don’t need him for either.
I deserve a trophy for the way I’ve managed to almost entirely avoid him this whole time, locking myself in my office, showing up as he’s leaving for the day, or working from home wherever I can get away with it.
If I have my way, I’ll never see him again.
The fourteen emails he’s sent me this week begging for a meeting are getting harder to dodge, but I’ll keep finding ways. All he needs to do is coordinate with Samuel and Charlie, make sure we have what we need to launch the menu, and not burn the food.
He doesn’t need me for that.
Once the restaurant is open, we’ll all be too busy to worry about things like sneaking in quickies in the walk-in, and life can go back to normal.
By the time I’m dressed, just a touch of minimal makeup (not much more than a swipe of eyeliner and a dot of lip stain on each cheek), I’m feeling better about myself already.
Even my sister won’t have shit to make fun of today, in these light, high-waisted jeans she bullied me into picking out, a red and white gingham crop shirt with ruffle sleeves, and the same white sneakers I wear every day.
The eldest Weiss sister isn’t looking half bad.
I might be running an hour late to the second annual summer kick-off party at my sister and Wyatt’s cottage, but it’s not a good enough reason to skip my weekly plant routine.
Stepping into the open living area of my bungalow, greenery welcomes me from all sides. Climbers, hanging plants, tabletop, floor, and shelf plants on every surface are what make this place feel like home for me.
This quaint, two-bedroom bungalow I bought at auction has really become my own in the past couple of years.
My sister fought to take down the bank that used to own this and so many other properties in town, their monopoly on the local real estate being what kept so many of us from being able to afford our own homes and businesses.
Rory helped me pick this one out and win it for a hell of a deal, and while my place isn’t huge, or new, it’s mine and I love it.
Flitting through the kitchen, I make my way to the small dining room that’s been repurposed as a conservatory to check on all my babies. They say for millennials, pets are the new kids and plants are the new pets, and I guess I’m proving them right.
My monstera, fiddle leaf, golden pothos, spider plant, peperomia, calathea, bird’s nest, and tiger tooth all get the weekly treatment they’re due for.
I dip a knuckle into the others, stroking their leaves, ensuring that none of them are going thirsty, or feel under the weather.
My rubber plant, string of pearls, ZZ, and all but one of my succulents are still happy and moist from their last feedings.
I saw some study on social media once that talking to your plants is good for them, and now it’s a habit I can’t break.
As I make my rounds I fill them in on the latest with the diner, explaining to them why I’ve had so much less time at home this past month, and that it’s not about to get any better once Heights Bites opens.
The gilded mister makes me feel like I’m in my own private greenhouse when I use it to shower my more spoiled plants with a bit of extra love, leaving them dewy and glistening, and when the whole routine is through, I treat myself to a crispy Diet Coke from the fridge, and I’m off.
A cross-body bag Rory picked out for me on her last trip in New York—a much more welcome gift from the city than my new chef—is the final touch, and me and my Nissan make the twelve-minute trek to my sister’s place.
The three pickups all side by side tell me exactly who’s here. A navy Dodge Ram, Wyatt (though this is his house, not really a surprise), cherry red F-150, Weston (and since she’s never far away these days, Amelia too), and white Toyota Tacoma, Gracie and Ronnie.
A crooked grin pops one side of my mouth up at the site of my bestie’s ride. Gracie and Ronnie—okay, especially Ronnie—are always a great time. Plus, I’ve hardly seen my niece and nephews since I signed the grant paperwork on the diner, and they need their fill of Auntie Lexi.
Let’s get this party started.
Their home is cozy, but modern. Stone house with thick black metal framing around the windows, which take up essentially the entire outside of the structure, and rustic wooden beams above the entrance.
Even though I’ve been here dozens upon dozens of times, it still pinches my chest if I let myself think about the history of this place too long, so I don’t.
The wide glass front door is open and I let myself right in, heading for where my sister is flurrying around in the compact kitchen. She looks up, sleek hair shifting with her movements, and her lips hitch up the tiniest bit at the sight of me.
“I should’ve told you it started at ten. Did you bring the strawberries?”
I can feel my nose scrunch up at the question. “Strawberries? I thought I was bringing melons.”
My sister rolls her eyes. “Ew, why would I put melon in a fruit salad? It was strawberries, Lex.” She lets out a heavy breath and holds out her hands. “Somehow I had a feeling this would happen and I got extra strawberries. So, fine. Give me the melons.”
Arms bent so my hands are right by my shoulders, elbows squeezing the girls together, I stick out my tongue and shimmy my rack at my baby sister. “I got your melons right here.”
Rory’s jaw drops—which I consider an accomplishment—before she slams it shut, teeth clacking.
“Never, Alexis, and I mean never do that in my line of sight again.” That hint of a smile is long gone.
“I thought water was thicker than blood!” I shout at her back as she storms away, hands to her temples, sundress swaying with each graceful step she takes.
“Right now it might be!” she hollers back at me.
Rolling my eyes—she makes no sense—I pass through the cottage and let myself out the side door, heading straight into the backyard where the people who know how to have fun are.
“Lex!” comes the voice of my best friend since high school, Gracie.
“Alexis!” That’s her husband, Ronnie, somehow best friends with Wyatt despite being polar opposites.
The three Kovar children race around Ronnie and Wyatt’s knees, giggling as they go.
After what might as well be the sound of a plunger un-sticking, Weston’s and Amelia’s voices join in.