Page 73 of Steamy Ever After

But since I can’t do that and live in a town with an incredibly competitive housing market, and surging rent prices, I won’t be stupid enough to bite the hand that houses me. And I wouldn’t dream of making our living arrangements even more uncomfortable by bringing sex into the mix even if there are days the thought lingers in my mind for far too long.

Like this morning, dressed in tight boy shorts and a T-shirt that slips off her shoulder, showing off the small lotus tattoo above her collarbone. The sight always triggers a strange reaction out of me, and today is no different. Only this time, I nearly broke my rule and showed her exactly how agitated she makes me.

Shaking off the insanely unwise thought, I glance down, then with a heavy sigh, I check the clock. I don’t have time to jerk off, since I now also need to stop at the coffee shop before work, but as I slide my hand down my stomach, applying pressure to my hard-on, I realize I might not be able to wait until tonight. A second chime on my phone reminds me I’m running late and don’t have a choice, so I snap my hand away, reminding myself that my next hookup will be more pleasing if I hold off.

After putting on a crisp white shirt and wrapping a navy-blue tie around my neck, I step out of my room, bumping into Jane in the hallway.

Dressed in one of her usual bohemian dresses that reaches her ankles, she glares at me, but my gaze drops to her silver anklet and toe ring, the sight prickling my skin like warm wax. I’m not sure why she insists on hiding her gorgeous legs and plump curves underneath those horrible dresses, but I smile and wish her a good day.

She glowers back. “Yeah, you too.”

“And I’ll get milk,” I add.

She rolls her green eyes at me—I’ve never seen someone look so disappointed and annoyed at the same time.

“Don’t bother,” she says, slamming the front door in my face.

CHAPTER 4

JANE

I’m so upset, so exhausted, I forget to pick up coffee on my way to work. But I don’t even notice until I’ve walked into the former elementary school building which houses the women’s center and drop my purse into the drawer under the desk.

“Damn it,” I hiss under my breath, storming into the lounge, to prep the coffee maker.

Tucked off to the side of the lobby, the tiny break room has yellowed walls, a round table, four chairs, and a microwave. Very non-profit chic.

Florenza, my boss and the one who runs the women’s center, enters the room, her wavy, chocolate brown hair tied up into a loose bun.

“Do we have caffeinated coffee?” I ask her over my shoulder, searching the cabinets.

Her laugh is deep and raspy. “No, tesoro. Only that decaf merda.” She draws the vertical blinds, letting some light into the dark room and checks her watch. “You have time. Go to the shop.”

“You mean like I was supposed to?” I snap back.

Flo is the loveliest soul I’ve ever met, and so many women owe their lives to her. The center provides a haven from abusive relationships and offers free classes, job search help, and collects donations. She’s built this place from the ground up and she’s only fifty years old, which convinces me she’s Mother Teresa reincarnated.

“What’s a matter, bellezza?” she asks, her charming Italian accent easing my anger.

“Nothing.” I pinch the bridge of my nose and return to my desk, reaching into the drawer to pull out my purse. “I didn’t have my coffee. It’s been a terrible morning.”

“Is that all?”

A young woman with a sharp angular chin and a faint bruise on her cheek, walks in, distracting me from my petty issues.

“Yes. It is.” I refuse to whine when someone fearful yet brave is standing in front of me, desperate for help.

Florenza welcomes her, explaining the services we offer and the procedure to get her checked in.

“Do you want anything?” I ask Flo. She shakes her head, smiles, then wraps an arm around the young woman and leads her into the other room.

The walk to the coffee shop is only a few blocks, and I know she’ll manage on her own, but I hurry because I hate leaving Florenza alone. Other volunteers will be in soon, but I can’t help it—I don’t like missing any amount of work, which is exactly what I’m doing now. The memory of who’s fault this is reignites my anger.

Distracted, mentally chastising Joe, I round the corner too fast and bump into someone.

“Shit,” I cuss, as a box he was holding smashes to the ground. “Oh, crap. I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t worry. It’s all good.” He bends down, picking it up, then turns it around a few times, inspecting it.

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