The Romance in Duet Collection

1. The Bad Sex Challenge

1

THE BAD SEX CHALLENGE

Elodie

Pretty sure I shouldn’t have come to a bar staffed by the world’s most droolworthy bartender after hosting a chocolate as an aphrodisiac class.

After teaching all those oh-so-in-love couples at my shop tonight about the sensual powers of chocolate, I should have marched straight home and taken an antidote in the form of organizing the junk drawer or scrubbing the kitchen floor while thinking deep thoughts on how to adult better.

But the rosemary fries at Sticks and Stones lured me here, and as I wait for the kitchen to finish my to-go order, my libido takes the wheel.

That man mixing a mojito at the other end of the bar is seriously scorching. This place should come with a warning sign reading: Enter this establishment at your own risk.

I need to tap the brakes and stop staring at the ink on his arms, the scruff on his jaw, the sin in his dark eyes.

I pop in my earbuds and scroll through my podcasts for a distraction. I hit start on a new episode of my friend’s dating show, and after the Heartbreakers and Matchmakers intro, a soprano-pitched guest host immediately begins: “Who wants to take the bad sex challenge? Tell us your sex troubles and we’ll help you figure out how to do it…better.”

Intrigued, I listen for another minute. But while the guest hosts—a disgustingly happy married couple—offer to tackle the between-the-sheets troubles of the single listeners by recreating the bad sex, off-air of course, my attention strays once more to Mister Droolworthy. I’ve seen him here a few times when I’ve swung by. Exchanged a word here or there. And admired the view.

Right now, he’s dropping a sprig of mint into a frosted glass. I’d let him fix my sex life. I’d let him fix it so hard. I bet he could fix it with those hands, those arms, that firm body…that’s coming my way.

Ack!

He delivers the mint-sprigged drink to a woman behind me, then stops right by my side. I smile a little innocently then pop out my earbuds.

“Something amusing?” he asks when he reaches me, with a tease of a smile coasting over those lips. Why does he have to have a bedroom voice to match those bedroom eyes?

Because the universe likes to taunt me with things I can’t have—like a mortgage and a hot-ass man.

“Very much so. It’s the bad sex challenge,” I tell him, after hitting stop on the podcast.

He frowns. “Who would take that?”

“Apparently lots of couples are taking it without even knowing it.”

He wiggles his fingers, beckoning me to share more. “Details.”

“I hate to break it to you, but there’s a lot of bad sex out there in the world. People suffering from this condition are calling into this podcast with their sex woes, and then this happily horny couple are offering their fixes.”

“ Sex and woe . Two words that should not go together.”

“You’re probably right.”

“I’m definitely right,” he says, but he’s clearly intrigued. He hasn’t even asked me for a drink order. He tips his forehead toward my phone. “So do they fix them? These…sex woes?”

It’s said with a shudder.

I make a seesaw gesture. “Sort of. They say they’re going to try out the bad sex to diagnose what others are doing wrong. Then, they’ll share tips to help make the sex lives of others great again.”

“I did not know Good Sex Samaritans existed,” he says, deadpanning amazement.

“You learn something new every day.”

“I guess it’s actually the great sex challenge then.” He takes a beat, his gaze lingering on me for several long, delicious seconds. “Right?”

Sign me up for that , I want to say. Right now. Right here. But even I’m not that impulsive. “That doesn’t sound like such a terrible ordeal,” I say with a bob of my shoulder.

“Challenge accepted then,” he says, then clears his throat, and almost like it’s hard for him, he shakes his head and shifts to business mode. “Need anything while we finish up your order?”

To sit on your face .

I smile like the superhero I am. Classy by day. Horny by night. “Just the food,” I say, surprised he knows I’m here for a pickup rather than a drink since he wasn’t behind the bar when I arrived earlier to place my order. “Margo said they should be ready soon. But how did you know what I was waiting for?”

“It’s my job to know. I own the place.” Bartenders are already unfairly sexy. Now I learn he runs it too? Responsible men are so hot. I’m not and have never been in a bad boy era, so my hormones are waving the white flag.

“And you own it well. It’s one of my favorites.”

“Good,” he says with a smile that melts me even more. “Let me check on that order for you.”

He turns to go, and I shamelessly watch as he strides to the end of the bar. He has an athlete’s physique, and I’m not complaining. Except when he disappears out of sight.

I’m definitely going to take a long, hot shower this evening after my little sister goes to bed. Spend some quality time with a waterproof friend to forget about the day, and the swirl of upcoming decisions that have been chasing me.

Or, better idea. Maybe my favorite sex toy shop can deliver me a new one since you can never have enough chocolate or vibrators. I hop over to the website for Risqué Business and skim the new offerings, gliding my polished cherry-red nail against the screen until I reach…The Command Performance. I read all about its stimulating properties.

And I’m sold. I’m one of the store’s platinum customers, so I hit order, then re-enter my address. A few seconds later, the “coming in one hour delivery” confirmation pops up.

With that dirty deed done, I act casual, smoothing a hand over my polka-dot skirt, fiddling with my rhinestone cocktail ring that I wear nearly every day, then adjusting the red paisley bandana that keeps my blonde hair in this retro style as I wait for the owner’s return. I mean, my takeout.

Did I put on lipstick before I came?

Couldn’t hurt to apply some more. I grab the tube from my handbag, slick some on, then purse my lips. There. I’m ready.

I replace my earbuds and tune back into the podcast, hoping Mister Droolworthy returns to finish the job—the job of asking me for my number.

One minute passes. More customers arrive. Another bartender comes behind the bar, a pale, petite woman with a silvery pixie cut.

Two minutes. Servers rush out from the kitchen, lifting trays of burgers and sandwiches and scurrying to tables.

Three minutes. I check my phone, then groan privately over the new email. It’s from The Chocolate Connoisseur, and the CEO’s asking if I have reviewed his buyout offer. Yes, I have, and it’s seriously stressing me out so much I need fifty orders of fries. The low-ball offer from the corporate giant’s been weighing on me, but I can’t drag my feet on it much longer, so I reply that I’ll respond soon.

Four minutes, five, and then Margo emerges from the swinging door instead of the man who’d said he was checking on my order. Her crinkled eyes swing to me, and she nods, heading my way. She’s carrying a brown paper bag with my name on it.

“Here you go, Elodie. The rosemary fries, a hummus sandwich, and a salad,” she says in her grandmotherly voice, weathered but playful. Her gaze strays subtly, or not so subtly, toward the back of the house.

“Thanks. I think I’m addicted to the fries,” I blurt out. I don’t want her to think I was waiting around for the hot bartender to make a move. I’m here for the food. Just the food.

She leans closer, her gray eyes full of a wisdom I wonder if I’ll ever possess as she says, “I get that. They’re addictive, so you can just keep coming back. Need anything else, hun?”

To tell the owner that I’m sorry I misread him so badly.

He’s a friendly bartender, that’s all. I’m just a woman amped up from her chocolate class. A woman who should go home and focus on her sister, and her bills, and her bank notices.

I smile brightly, hoping it doesn’t read as false. “I’m all good,” I say, then grab my sweater, take the bag, and go.

It’s fine. It’s just fine. I’ll go home, spend time with Amanda, then once she goes to bed, I’ll have some me time . And I don’t have to wonder what The Command Performance’s intentions are whatsoever.