Page 7 of Pretending I'm Yours

My plan was to speak to Twyla about my special request, hopefully get confirmation that I’ve been approved for one of her “top-secret” services, and head back to my hotel to recover from the trauma of doing hard new things.

But this isn’t nearly as scary as I thought it would be.

Most of the patrons seem older than I am by a good ten or fifteen years, but I’ve always been more comfortable with older people. According to my parents, I was born an old soul, always more at ease in the kitchen chatting with my adult relatives at family gatherings than outside running wild with my cousins.

And these people seem nice. Their smiles as they chat are genuine, their laughter is warm. They seem like lovely, ordinary people enjoying a festive Christmas Eve with friends…or reading alone in sexy solitude like a hero ripped straight from my romantic fantasies.

Suddenly, I feel silly for assuming The Garden’s patrons would be sex-crazed deviants desperate for a carnal fix.

After all, Weaver isn’t a deviant.

I mean, he probablyisin the bedroom—the look in his eyes when he watches Sully cross a room can get pretty predatory attimes—but that’s only part of his personality. There’s a lot more to Weaver.

Maybe there’s more to me, too. Maybe I can be the good, dutiful, responsible girl my parents raised me to beanda wild child who approaches gorgeous older men at sex clubs…

Sex club.

I’m really inside asex club.

The bizarre reality hits all over again, making my heart beat faster as Raven presses a code into a keypad hidden behind a fold in yet another heavy velvet curtain, opening a door concealed in the wall’s wooden panel. With a bracing breath, I follow her up the stairs, doing my best not to hyperventilate.

This is really happening. I’m about to ask a complete stranger to help me hire a prostitute, which is not only scandalous but completely illegal.

If I’m caught, I could go to jail for this.

Or prison. Maybe foryears.

And yes, Weaver is probably right—the police likely have more important things to do than prosecute a shy, twenty-something woman looking for a safe way to learn about sex from a respectful, vetted, disease-free older man—but still!

This is not like me! Not at all.

“Ms. Kincaid will be with you shortly.” Raven gestures to a plush leather chair in what appears to be a normal office, albeit with some very provocative art on the walls. I don’t think a single person in those paintings is wearing clothes, and I’m pretty sure one of the women is making out with a minotaur. “Would you like something to drink while you wait? Water? Tea? Glass of wine? Bourbon on ice?”

“No, thank you.” My voice is a strangled squeak, but I force a smile and try to appear chill as Raven closes the door.

The second she’s gone, I sink into the chair and drop my head into my hands, pulling in deep breaths, struggling to remember everything Weaver told me about how to handle myself tonight…

One month earlier….

It’s Thanksgiving at the Swallows’ compound and all my best friends are here to share the end of the day with my family, the way they have every year since we were kids. Elaina and Sully do an early afternoon meal with their families, then head over to my place for our traditional evening meal, dessert buffet, and game night.

As usual, the chardonnay is flowing freely and the turkey is running late. But unlike seasons past, I’ve spent the past two hours watching my girlfriends canoodle with their sexy boyfriends and feeling increasingly alone.

This is it.

I’m about to be left behind.

If I don’t find a way to grow up, glow up, and find a relationship of my own, I’m going to be the odd person out for the rest of my life. Which would be fine if I didn’t want a sexy boyfriend, but I do.

I really,reallydo.

Watching Gideon’s big hand curve around the small of Sydney’s back as they stand chatting with my cousins in the living room is enough to make my entire body ache with longing. And when Weaver kisses Sully’s forehead before gathering their appetizer plates and heading into the kitchen, I’m seized with the powerful certainty that I have to do something.

Now.

Right now.

Following Weaver into the kitchen, I’m relieved to find my mom and aunts still in the sitting room, killing time playing bridge until it’s time to put the finishing touches on the side dishes.

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