Page 16 of Forecasting the Forward

“Well, I assumed they’d both be penetrating in order for it to count as sex, but I just assumed one was in the …” I trail off. Oh my word. My face heats as embarrassment sinks in.

Jacob cocks his head to the side. “What, Spitfire? What did you assume?”

“Nothing,” I answer hurriedly.

“Oh, I don’t think it was nothing. Come on, now. Don’t be shy. I promise I won’t make fun of you.”

That’s not what I’m afraid of. I’m more worried he’ll realize just how sheltered I am, with virtually no experience whatsoever. I don’t know why I want Jacob to think highly of me, since I know nothing will happen between us. I’m me, and he’s him. Apples and oranges.

“Becca,” he says quietly. “Look at me.”

When my eyes meet his, I’m taken aback at the intensity. His blue eyes are deeper somehow.

“Tell me what you thought,” he commands.

“I thought one was oral,” I blurt out, then cover my face with my hands. “I just thought it meant penetrating anywhere, but then I realized you probably meant in her butt.”

“That can be true, but these guys liked to find a woman who would take both of them in her pussy,” Jacob says matter-of-factly.

My hands drop from my face as I stare at him in shock. “Seriously? That’s a possibility? I don’t think I’ve ever even seen that come up when I search for porn. How does that work? That can’t feel comfortable for any of them. Logistically speaking, are they laying down? Standing? Who chooses who gets to face the girl and who is behind her? I have too many questions.”

As I watch Jacob’s grin get wider and wider, I realize what I said. “I mean —”

“Oh no, darlin’, you said what you said. And you ain’t taking it back now. My sweet, little Becca, searching for porn. You really are a spitfire, aren’t you? You got a favorite website? I bet you even have a favorite porn star, don’t you?”

“Is there a hole I can crawl into and die?” I moan, laying my head on the table.

“I can ask my friends. Seems like their DP buddies might have holes big enough for that,” Jacob jokes.

“I swear, if you tell anyone about this, I will find someone to mess with your hockey crap, Jacob Mitchell,” I warn.

“Uh oh, you almost full-named me,” he says with a chuckle. “Thank fuck you don’t know my middle name.”

“I can find it,” I mutter. I’m sure there are fan websites out there for him that’ll tell me his middle name, shoe size, and probably the shape of his penis. I’m about to say that when I feel his hand coast across the top of my head, gently moving a lockof my hair from my face. The movement sends a shiver down my spine.

“You have nothing to be embarrassed about, Becca,” he says softly. “Anyone who says they don’t look at porn is a liar. Better lift your head, our food is coming out.”

I raise my head, but keep my gaze averted as Mrs. Fratelli places our enormous pizza in the middle of the table. Only after we’ve both taken a slice do I speak. “Can we never speak of this again?”

“You got it.”

After an eveningof excellent pizza and remarkably easy going conversation, I begin to freak out when Jacob insists on walking me back to my apartment. The sun has set behind the mountains, casting an eerie glow across the city, but the tall buildings block any remaining sunlight from large portions of downtown. I’d have no problem walking earlier in the evening, but I wasn’t kidding about having a stalker. I’m still checking my surroundings wherever I go.

But right now, I’m more aware of Jacob’s presence beside me. Casting a quick glance out of the corner of my eye, I take in his profile. Head held high, he walks with a cocky assuredness that all professional athletes seem to have. I’m not too proud to admit that I may have cyber stalked him a little bit earlier in the day, and I’m fairly certain this suit isn’t in his game day rotation. It makes me wonder if he just bought it, or if it’s a suit that he brings out for first dates. How many women have seen this suit? Better yet, how many women have taken this suit off of him?

“You’re thinking pretty hard over there,” he comments, pulling me out of my weird spiral.

“I was thinking about your suit,” I blurt out. “Do you normally wear a suit to a blind date?”

“No,” he chuckles. “Levi made me. I’d rather be in jeans and boots.”

“Cowboy boots?” I ask.

“Once a Texan, always a Texan,” he says with a grin.

“Can I ask you a few stereotypical questions about Texas?”

“Sure.”

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