Page 8 of Sugar Baby Mine

I peer up at her, and there’s a soft look on her normally sharp features. Sympathy? Pity? I’m not sure.

“Flying is the easy part of the whole thing, I promise. Just don’t ask formoreafter you’ve established things. That’s one of the biggestdon’tsI can advise you on. The difference with being a sugar baby, not a vanilla girlfriend, is that you aren’t demanding attention. You aren’t calling him up. No obligations, no tears, no drama—no drawbacks.”

It sort of sounds too good to be true. Because those drawbacks are exactly why I’m always the first to leave.

“You’ll need to get tested so you can exchange results with him.You need to keep yourself safe. Birth control?”

“You know I got an IUD years ago.”

Cora looksproudfor half a second before then her expression softens and becomes too much for me. My IUD will always be a reminder of my sister’s pregnancy and everything that brought my house down with it. The last thing my parents were able to force on me so that I didn’t end up pregnant out of wedlock just like her. At least they paid for it.

“There’s another thing I know you’ll have a hard time with because Iknowyou, but that is literally the point of this. You not only resist compliments, but also gifts—”

“I do not.”

“Yes, you do. And you’re likely going to be given expensive gifts, large sums of money, lavish trips—but as a sugar baby, you graciously accept the benefits from your sugar daddy.”

The guilt and anxiety are already welling up like an overflowing spring. I can feel it simmering in my pores like sweat on a hot summer day.

“I can do that.”

Cora levels me with a stare that could break a mountain in two.

“I can,” I say more resolutely. “I understand that’s the point of the relationship. It’s not something I’m used to, but I’ll get over it.” My words sound pretty convincing, committed even.

But who am I convincing, Cora or myself?

“Good. The last thing I’ll say for now is that you need to be prepared for him to end things at any point. Don’t depend on it, use it like a supplement.” She pauses and chews on her lip, looking away from me. “Just don’t get too attached. You don’t want to fall in love with someone who only wants you for those specific things, because eventually you’ll want more.”

I nod, closing my eyes. My teeth sink into my lip and can’t help it when I bite so hard the coppery tang of blood blooms across the tip of my tongue.

My head is swimming when I get up the next day. I have to drag myself up out of bed to turn the alarm off on my phone halfway across the room, swiping away messages containing different links Cora sent to me before we went to sleep. Unfortunately, I have a shift to work at the flower shop today. Though it’s not that early, it still makes drinking then staying up so late so regrettable. Even after only one beer. I don’t know how people drink more than that, honestly.

I’m too young to feel so old.

Rushing through getting dressed in jeans and a black tee, I step over the piles of laundry in my room, go down the hall, and rush toward the door after barely brushing my teeth and throwing my hair up in a ponytail. I reach for my cardigan on the hook in the entryway, fingers slipping through the thin air. I groan, nearly stomping my foot like a toddler when I remember exactly where it is.

Probably kicked under Sam Paris’s bed to die a gruesome death, next to all the other women’s panties he slingshots around his room.

Grabbing my keys and purse, I lock the door behind me and take the stairs two at a time down to the street level to start my walk to the flower shop. It’s only a few blocks from our apartment building, so I don’t have to bother with the bus, subway, or anything crazy. Thankfully, there is barely a chill in the air this morning.

The day goes painfully slow, the only saving grace is my co-worker, Valerie, ordering coffee from Starbucks and offering to cover my drink. My once-a-day, no good money sink that I know I shouldn’t be indulging in, considering caffeine calms me more than wakes me up. I’m always ready for a nap after a caramel macchiato.

I sit at the counter between helping customers and misting down the flowers we have out front on display, scrolling through links Cora sent. Idly, I fill out an expedited passport application, even though part of me wants to freak out over the thought of getting on a plane. I’ve barely been two states away on family vacations and now I’m going to be ready to fly to another country? It kind of makes me want to barf.

The total price nearly makes me weep—nearly three hundred dollars in total. I have to send a pathetic text to Cora to ask for the money to cover the cost. Not even two minutes later, I get a notification that I have money in my Venmo account. She sent more than enough, because she’s extra like that. I follow the link at the end to make an appointment at the post office for the remaining steps.

I throw myself into flowers for the rest of the day. I weave bouquets with a laser focus I can only ever seem to find in the backroom of the shop, even when the floral smell overwhelms me at times and I’m forced to take a break or risk a migraine.

Cora isn’t home when I get back to the apartment, and that’s just fine.

Fine.

Not that I’ve been freaking out all day, bruising flower petals and having to cut ribbons twice over whenever my thoughts strayed.

A sad turkey sandwich and handful of chips later, I settle in bed with my e-reader and a spicy, pirate x princess-disguised-as-a-cabin-boy romance for the rest of the night.

The next morning, I go in to work before I’m supposed to—which is blasphemy. I don’t enjoy the shocked look on Angela’s face when I walk through the door, decidedly not late for my shift for once. But I could barely get my brain to turn off in order to sleep, so I rolled out of bed and crawled across the floor to get ready despite wanting to bed rot all day.

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