Chapter 9 Quirky Bangs, Professional Hands （Eden）
QUIRKY BANGS, PROFESSIONAL HANDS (EDEN)
Liz is sprawled across the couch in her coziest leggings, hair in a messy bun that looks intentional, a pint of mint chip balanced on her stomach.
“Ice cream?” I tease. “Rough shift?”
She smirks. “Relax. I knocked out sprints at sunrise. This is recovery.”
Our TV is streaming a Netflix romcom where the heroine is somehow quirky, wildly successful, has perfect bangs without ever going to a hairdresser, a designer wardrobe she clearly didn’t pay for, and the kind of body you only get from Pilates at 5 a.m. and starvation—except she lives on croissants and never exercises.
Yep. Another ‘slay all day’ heroine. Totally relatable.
“Why does every guy on this show have abs like he’s prepping for a Marvel audition?”
I snort, curling up on the other end of the couch with my own spoon. “Because apparently regular men with normal human torsos can’t fall in love on screen.”
She gasps dramatically. “Don’t you dare ruin my delusion.”
We watch in silence for a minute as Mr. Marvel Abs sweeps Ms. Quirky Bangs off her feet—he lifts her effortlessly. Liz sighs. “God, I want that.”
“Being carried?”
“Being worshipped.” She licks her spoon, making it a statement. “Anyway. Speaking of worship…” Her eyes slide over to me, and I know where this is going.
“No,” I say preemptively.
“Yes,” she fires back. “Tell me everything. The date with Bennet—spill.”
I groan, sinking lower into the couch cushions. “It was…fine.”
Liz narrows her eyes. “Fine? Eden, you went out with a guy who could feature in a finance bro calendar. That’s at least spicy fine.”
“It wasn’t spicy,” I mumble.
“Was it at least cute?”
I hesitate. “He was…charming. Funny. Good conversationalist.”
Liz arches a brow. “And hot?”
I sigh, rubbing my forehead. “Objectively, yes. Tall, clean-cut, smells of expensive cologne. The whole package.”
“And?” she prompts, as if I’m holding out the juicy part.
“And nothing,” I say. “He kissed me, and it was like…kissing a wall.”
Liz winces. “Oof. That bad?”
“No, not bad. Just…nothing. Kissing air would’ve been more exciting. Or, I don’t know, kissing someone who’s reading a spreadsheet in their head.”
She laughs so hard she nearly drops the ice cream. “You kissed a human Excel file.”
“Basically.”
She sits up, eyes narrowing in mock-seriousness. “Okay, so why not try again? Maybe the second kiss will be better. Are you seeing him again?”
“No way. I’m not signing up for a subscription to mediocre kisses, Liz.”
“Oooh, she said subscription,” Liz teases, pointing her spoon at me. “Listen to you, Miss Bougie. But seriously, is this about Josh?”
I freeze. “What?”
She softens, scooting closer. “You know. The whole…thing. How he—”
“Yes, Liz, I remember,” I say, sharper than I mean to. I exhale. “It’s not about him. It’s about me.”
She’s quiet, waiting.
I swirl my spoon through the half-melted ice cream, stalling.
“I tried with Josh. Therapy, books, all the advice about ‘just relaxing.’ But there’s no magic ‘off’ switch for trauma.
And still... nothing. I couldn’t get there.
Not once. I’m twenty-six, and I’ve never had a vaginal orgasm with a man.
Bennet’s not changing that—I can tell right away. ”
Liz’s expression softens. Her voice drops, less teasing now. “But you can come on your own? With a vibrator?”
My cheeks flush. I nod. “Yeah. Alone, no problem. But with someone else?” I shake my head. “It’s like my body slams the door shut. And it’s not fair to keep trying with someone when I already know how it ends.”
She frowns. “You’re not broken, Eden. You just need the right guy.”
“Tell that to the part of me that freezes every time someone gets too close.”
Liz sets the ice cream down, leaning forward. “So what, you’re just going to swear off men forever?”
“I don’t know,” I admit. “Bennet’s nice. He’s perfect on paper. But…no.”
Liz studies me, calculating. Then her face goes bright, and I tense. “You know what you need?”
I lift a brow. “I don’t need anything.” The words come out sharp and defensive.
Need turns you into a beggar—taking what you’re handed instead of choosing.
I have what I need. Want is different. Mine is specific, on my terms—things I’ve only let myself imagine.
“And don’t bring in tequila,” I add, easing the edge.
“I wasn’t going to,” she says, mock-offended. “I was going to suggest…a professional.”
I blink. “A what?”
“Someone who knows what they’re doing. Someone you can trust, no strings attached. An escort.”
I nearly choke on my spoon. “A prostitute?”
Liz shrugs. “Why not? You don’t need a man to make you whole. But if you want to know what great sex feels like, an escort makes sense. Clear terms. No pressure.”
I stare. “Do you…actually know one?”
She grins. “Not in my contacts. But the internet does. I could vet someone with five stars before the credits roll.”
“Liz—”
“Just think about it.” She lifts a hand. “Worst case, he’s a dud and you’re out a grand. Best case…” She wiggles her brows. “You finally get the thing you’ve been wondering about.”
The number hits my throat. I swallow and say nothing. On screen, the two leads collide in a steamy kiss. Liz squeals and claps. I try to watch the movie. My brain won’t quit.
The idea is insane. Reckless. Not me. And yet my pulse won’t settle.