Page 78 of Kiss Me Tonight

“Andyou’resexually frustrated,” Willow counters with full-on sass. Momentarily forgetting about her target, she sips her cocktail and stares at me unerringly. “I still can’t believe you went swimming with Dominic and didn’t even get the D. I’m telling you, it’s a travesty. EvenIfeel disappointed—I can only imagine how neglected your vagina must feel.”

“Keep your voice down,” I frantically whisper, shooting a glance to my left. A relieved sigh works its way up and out of my system when it’s clear that no one has taken a seat beside me.All the points go to Bar Harbor, of which I know zero people.“I regret telling you anything.”

“Liar. You so don’t.”

“I really, really do. Also, who uses the phraseget the Din their thirties?”

Willow tosses her hair over one shoulder, her lips pursed smugly. “Those of us who know what it feels like to get some dirty sex, dear sister. If you just”—here she makes an obscene hand gesture that honestly terrifies me—“let your reservations go, you’d probably have a good time together.”

Since that single kiss at London High a few days ago, Dominic has kept our physicality on lockdown.

And I get it—I really, really do.

We work together. Technically, I’m his boss. It’s unlikely that he’s here in town for the long haul, and there’s also the matter of Topher . . .

I’ll never do to my son what his father has accomplished in the year that we’ve been divorced. Rick totes around new women like they’re fashion accessories. He calls Topher while he’s on his way home from a date—in other words, when he’swithhis date. He only wants to video chat when he has “company” over because, as he puts it, “Don’t you want to meet my new girlfriend, bud? Don’t tell Mom about this, yeah?” It’s manipulative and it’s disgusting, and while I know Rick doesn’t wantme, I think he’s pissed that Topher chose to move to Maine with me instead of staying in Pittsburgh.

Punishing us both is the name of the game for my ex-husband, but what he doesn’t seem to realize is the lasting damage he’s doing to his son. Instead of thinking his dad is so “cool” to be hanging out with women who are just this side of legal, Topher asks if Rick is depressed or sad that we left. It doesn’t help when Rick regularly forgets to check in, leaving Topher to sit by the phone for hours and wait for his call. All attempts on my end to whip my ex-husband into shape have gone unanswered.

Rick does what he wants to do and nothing else, literally and figuratively.

So while my ex-husband flaunts his menagerie of women around, including in front of his son, I haven’t slept with a single soul.

Not one.

And yet . . .

“Is it wrong that I can’t imagine myself having a fling?” I utter the damning words slowly, softly, so there’s no chance Willow will ask me to repeat them. “I’ve never . . .” I shove my hands through my straight hair, dropping my chin to stare into my pink cocktail like it holds all the answers to the dating universe.If only.“Rick was my first, Wills. The guy before him was . . . well, unmemorable. You know that. I know that.”

Surprisingly, Willow doesn’t launch into a dramatic rant fit for an off-Broadway show. Hell, she doesn’t even smile when she settles a hand over my forearm, her hot-pink nails a direct contrast to my pale skin.

“You’re scared of commitment,” she assesses succinctly.

I bark out a startled laugh. “I was married to Rick for fourteen years, Willow. I don’t think commitment is my problem.”

She arches her brow, taunting me. “Then let’s call it like it is: you’re scared of sex.”

My eyes go wide as I jerk a glance over my shoulder. “Keep your voice down! You can’t just . . . you can’t just—”

“You have sexphobia.”

Seeking alcoholic guidance, I drain the rest of my cocktail. The ice cubes rattle in the glass when I plunk it down on the bar top. Feeling heat dust my shoulders and warm my cheeks, I finally mutter, “That’s not a real psychological term.”

It’s a pathetic retort and we both know it.

Willow lifts a finger to call for another round of drinks. Then she turns back to me, her blue eyes—so much like mine—curious and zeroed in on my face. “Don’t forget that you spilled your guts out to me after you left Rick.”

“Another reason to avoid Guinness for the rest of my life. It never, ever does me any favors.”

She nudges me in the shoulder. “You can’t base sex off what you had with Rick the Prick. I mean, look at me. I’m divorced. I’m still hitting the scene. I’mliving.”

“You’re having enough orgasms for all of us.”

“Don’t hate.” Accepting the drinks from the bartender, who slides them across the bar, Willow takes a hearty sip of her Manhattan through a black straw. Because that’s the type of person my sister is: an EXWIFEY driving, straw-sipping, orgasm-obsessed woman. Quirky as she is, I can’t help but admire her style.

“You know what your problem is?” she asks, twirling her straw around in her glass.

“I have a feeling you’re gonna tell me no matter what.”

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