Page 25 of Crazy Imperfect Hearts

I’m sweating.

Am I…nervous?I’m not sure why. It’s not like this is a date. It’s a do-over. That’s all. A way to solidify the forgotten night into my memory. Only… it’s not as forgotten as I thought. Bits and pieces of that night have come back to me over the past week. Her soft curves. Her inviting lips. Her delectable pussy that I long to stick more than just my dick into.

Down, boy.

It’s because of the crush. The way I wore out my right hand over her. She was my fantasy for years. The forbidden sister of my best friend. The older woman who never gave a second glance to the pimple-faced friend of her annoying little brother.

I walk inside Truman’s Grocery Store. It’s not where I usually shop. There’s a larger supermarket closer to my apartment building. This place is small. Quaint. Like most of the other establishments along The Circle.

Saturday evening is not a popular time for shopping. I only see three people in the eight aisles. Serenity Calloway, formerly Donovan, co-owner of the pub across the street, has a bag of limes and waves to me as she checks out. Althea Henry, a nurse over at the hospital, turns her nose up at me as she passes with her basket. She’s my age, maybe a little younger. She—like most women in this town—has boycotted me.

Hell, most women in Cal Creek boycotted me after Simone, the second woman I left. Technically, I’ve only left threeatthe altar, but people in this town don’t care much about technicalities.

Veronica, my third fiancée, was from the city. She’s a liquor distributor I met during a wine convention in Connecticut. By the time she found out about my past, she’d already fallen for me. She’s the one I left a few weeks before the wedding. Not because I didn’t love her, but because I knew I’d bail and didn’t want a threepeat.

Lissa—number four—knew exactly who I was and what I’d done. Our relationship started out fun and easy with a spontaneous trip to Europe to tour some wineries. From there, it grew into something neither of us expected. I should have left well enough alone and not insisted we marry. She was fine being the couple in love who just never tied the knot. Like Kurt and Goldie, she said. Soulmates who don’t need a piece of paper to prove our love. If only I’d have listened. We’d still be together, and I wouldn’t be the pariah of Cal Creek, destined to live and die alone.

The third shopper is Lincoln Cruz. He and his siblings own the autobody shop around the corner. It used to be a Goodyear. Maddie’s ex’s parents owned it until it went up for sale a few years ago and the Cruz siblings pooled their resources, took out a gigantic loan, and opened the Cruz-In Auto Repair Shop.

He, too, turns up his nose at me. For a very different reason than Althea did. The Cruzes and Montanas aren’t exactly friendly. Though Blake and Dax are friends and my sister Allie and Dax’s twin, Mia, have been joined at the hip since they were teens, for the most part, our families are rivals. The Montanas always side with the Calloways and the Cruzes are closer to the McQuaid clan.

We’re all related in one way or another, however, in one big clusterfuck of lineage. If I remember correctly, Lincoln Cruz is my fourth cousin.

In this town, it’s not even unusual for cousins to marry. Not first cousins. I’m fairly sure that’s illegal. But Addison Callowaymarried Hawk McQuaid—boy if that didn’t stir the pot between those families—and they’re third cousins. Gross, if you ask me. Inbreeding is not something I aspire to do.

“Something I can help you with?”

I turn and catch Mr. Truman himself wiping wet hands on an apron.

“I’m, uh…”Why the fuck am I so goddamn tongue-tied?“No, I’m just…”

“Spit it out, son.”

“I just came to see what kind of wine you’re stocking these days.”

“Got nothin’ better to do on a Saturday night, eh?” He nods becauseheknows me, too. He points to a sign in the far corner. “Wine’s over there. And, just so you know, we carry a few bottles of yours.”

“Glad to hear it. Thanks, Mr. Truman.”

I trot off, not looking back to see if he’s watching me like a man who knows he’s just been fed a forkful of bullshit.

Where is she?

Maybe I gave her too much time to think about it. She said she told people. Maddie Calloway and Ava Criss, most likely. Those three are as joined together as Allie and Mia. Bet they talked her out of it. Warned her away. It’s what I’d do if I were them. Hell, I’m still questioning why Regan hooked up with me in the first place.

Could it be that she really was just interested in sex? Being the kind of man who’s always been in relationships, it boggles my mind.

Then again, it’s not the first time a girl has wanted to get with me just to see what’sdown there.

It’s always hung over my head. Just as Tom Hanesworth got teased for having a micro-penis, I got ribbed for being well-endowed. It started in high school when at fifteen, I swear I grewfour inches in one year, and not in height. The guys in the locker room noticed. And once they blabbed, there was a line of girls out the front door all wanting their chance to see it.

Kaitlyn, my high school sweetheart, and the first almost Mrs. Montana, was scared when she heard the rumors. It took months to get her to touch it. Years before she’d let me put it inside her. And she was so tight we always had to use lube or she would chafe badly.

By the time junior year rolled around, I had several nicknames. While poor Hanesworth was dubbed Tom Thumb, I was graced with versions of Long Dong Lucas. Meat Stick Montana. Or the one that finally stuck with me for life after Simone: Giganta Montana.

Having a huge cock comes with pros and cons, much like I imagine is the same with large-breasted women. We both have trouble running. No way could I ever go commando or my meat would be swinging like a pendulum, thwacking my thighs with every step. And then there’s the wondering, as I am now, if a woman likes me for my dick or my personality. And of course the biggest downside: blowjobs. I rarely get a good one. I’m just too large. Women choke on me. Their jaws get tired from opening wide. It’s just something I’ve become accustomed to living without.

Condoms are a problem, too. I always have to carry my own. Women rarely have a size that fits me. Too-small condoms make me feel like I’m wearing a tight turtleneck. Not to mention they’re likely to slip off or break.

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