Page 152 of Branded
Nutella pancakes with crispy, salty hash browns, and a cup of decaf (and I would also have a glass of water because I was being good).
And then maybe a hot chocolate with extra whipped cream.
Because if I was having second breakfast, then I needed hot chocolate with extra whipped cream.
But first, water.
Second, order.
Third, pulling out my Kindle and diving back into my book—a romantic fantasy that was fucking incredible, the world the author had woven so well-developed and amazing and diverting that I wanted to dive in and never escape.
Oh, to be Feyre.
But I lived in the real world, with no magical, devoted, powerful men (there were powerful men and devoted men, but rarely did those worlds collide, and unfortunately none of those men could sprout wings or shoot lightning bolts or best beasts with nary more than their wits and a sword).
So, fantasy.
So using my vibrating friend when all my pregnancy hormones reared their needs and I got really desperate.
Sad.
But that was my life.
Because seriously, swear to Christ, it had been a long time since an actual penis had made friends with my actual vagina.
Plenty of tools and hands and people looking up there.
But all of them were in the business of making a baby—or babies—for Pru and Marcel, and none of them in the business of giving me an orgasm.
So…books.
So…vibrating friends.
So…shopping and chocolate-filled pancakes and my imagination.
That would be enough.
My server came out—today it was Janet—who I was on a first-name basis with because I had come in a lot for pancakes since I’d moved down here.
One, the outlets were nearby for my favorite pastime.
Two, Donna’s had delicious pancakes, Wi-Fi, and if I timed my morning drop-in just right, I could take up a booth until lunchtime and get both pancakes and one of their famous—at least in my book—grilled cheeses.
“Breakfast and lunch today, honey?” Janet asked, pad out and pencil already streaking across the paper.
“Just breakfast,” I told her with a smile when Janet glanced up from that pad and lifted her brows. “Playing hooky from work and having a shopping extravaganza instead.”
Janet smiled, wide enough that she flashed me her crooked eye tooth, and tucked her pencil back behind her ear. “Good for you,” I said. “I know I’ve told you plenty, but you work too hard, especially with those babies cooking.”
“Someone touched my belly today,” I blurted.
Two someones technically.
Though my lightly calloused fingers had been welcome.
The strange woman with the boxer-like (the dog, not the profession) face had all but cornered me in the lot and asked when I was due.
It was…one of those odd wanting to commiserate about the difficulties of being a woman scenarios—or so I thought—because the woman wasn’t mean and didn’t give me weird vibes (other than the whole touching without permission part). But I wasn’t keen to continue having discussions about my birth plan and/or breastfeeding versus formula with complete strangers.
