Page 41 of Not Just a Trick Play

“It’s first come, first serve,” she shoots back, but thankfully follows me outside into the brisk morning.

Pausing, I scan both sides of the bustling street before turning to her. “Which way?”

She crossed her arms. “Tell me about last night first.”

My stomach churns, and urgency pushes against my ribcage. I need toget us out of here.

“Nothing to tell. I met someone at a bar. We did the deed. That’s it,” I mumble, downplaying the magnitude of the event, though my mind begins to whirl with memories. I blush. Stellar, starry memories.

“Huh.” She stares at me for another moment, while I pray she leaves well enough alone. At last, she relents, pointing right. “That way.”

I march in the direction she indicates, the bright New York sun in my eyes, as if I’ve stepped onto center stage under a brilliant spotlight, a far cry from my usual place in the murky cloudiness of England.

My innards twist—there’s the high of euphoria, the jolt of shock, a surge of empowerment, and the most curious sense of being laid bare, all topped with a generous helping of “Did I really do that?”

Why, yes. Yes, I bloody well did. And I’m shelving any doubts and embarrassment to bask in it. This is my moment of triumph. My first walk of fame, because I refuse to let it be anything else.

I’ve slept with someone who isn’t Ben. Go me. I mentally update my biography, proudly adding a new chapter titled, “Embracing My Inner Vixen: A Journey from Boring to Bold.”

I chew on my lip. Does it count as a one-night stand if you know the person? Not that Jake and I know each other well. Though now I suppose I know him better. Biblically.

“So, was he any good?” Yvonne catches up, more persistent than a seagull in a chip shop. Not exactly helpful, since I can’t seem to stop revisiting all the delicious details myself.

“I’ve had worse,” I admit.

It’s true. Given my breath of experience, Ben certainly didn’t have the moves that Jake did because last night was stand-up sex. In every sense of the phrase. A pose often glamorized in steamy movie scenes and romance novels, but up till now, the practical mechanics remained an enigma.

How was it even comfortable? How did things line up properly with so little room to maneuver? It always seemed like the position required some sort of IKEA-esque assembly guide: Anchor Arse (Part A) with Hand (Bolt B). Insert Phallus (Screw C) into Vagina (Hole D) screw in until fit is secure. Do not over-tighten. Repeat drilling motion until cerebral function is minimized.

But Jake Cunningham? No instructions necessary. He’s the bloke you hire who assembles the furniture with his eyes closed. There were no awkward shoulders or aimless hands or extraneous body parts. No dangly bits unaccounted for, just pure, unadulterated skill.

“Umm… So-so. He had some moves,” I venture.

She perks up at my statement. “Oh? Are you seeing him again?”

That question dashes my pleasant reminiscing into a cliff. No. Absolutely not. It was a onetime thing. Come Monday, we’llbe colleagues, and I’m not sleeping with another of those—been there, done that.

Plus, I have no desire to add one more notch under my name on the friends-of-his-sisters-he’s-slept-with list, especially since Yvonne is genuinely delightful and I would hate to upset her. The niggling disappointment there won’t be a sequel? I shove that aside.

Her face falls. “Bad, huh? Don’t worry. We’ll find you a palate cleanser. Plenty of choice in the city.”

I should agree, right? Now that I’ve invoked my inner femme fatale, it makes sense to maintain this bold streak. However, the thought of increasing my own tally has me feeling a tad squeamish.

Before I can answer, we arrive at our destination, a little spot called Buvette, only to find a queue stretching almost to the corner. Disappointment swells. She points to the end. “Get in line. I’ll go put our names down.” At least this spares me more ceaseless interrogation.

Obediently, I join the throng, taking in the surroundings. The picturesque, tree-lined street with its elegant brick homes reminds me of Mayfair. Time seems to stretch out as more people come up behind me—two couples and a squad of thirty-something women.

“Another forty-five minutes,” Yvonne grumbles when she rejoins me. “Fucking brunch is a competitive sport in this city.”

“We can go somewhere else,” I offer. Truth be told, I wouldn’t mind. I’m starving. Must have been all those extra calories I burned last night.

“Nah. Trust me, it’s worth the wait. Plus, it gives us plenty of time to talk about finding you Mr. Right.”

“No,” I snap.

She blinks, taken aback, and I instantly regret my brusqueness. Before I can apologize, her expression softens. “Why not?”

“Remember the photo of the man in my feed? That was Ben,” I begin, choosing my words with care to make up for my brief lapse in composure. “Well, about two years ago, Gran hired him to be the bartender at the inn. Was extremely popular—charismatic, flirtatious. In the way that bartenders usually are.”

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