Page 21 of Champagne Fizz

“I’m leaving,” I reply, trying to ignore her comment, along with the fact that my brain is now imagining Kendall tied up and naked. “Please go have Connor help you with your frustrations, so you don’t have to wage war with the wedding planner.”

“Weddings With Hart is not going to survive,” Arie states, her hands on her hips again and framed by the Waikiki Bay.

“And please,” I plead as the elevator doors start closing, “bleach whatever surface you and Connor end up using while I’m gone.”

Arie’s smile turns wicked like she’s not going to promise anything.

Typical.

Now I’m going to have to clean every surface … again.

5

KENDALL

The Gin n’ Lava is surprisingly charming for a place covered in blow fish lamps and plastic flamingos. I suppose if you own a bar and are in love with all things kitsch, then you might as well go all in.

I take a seat at the bar and grab a menu. This place is hot—no air conditioning—making me brush my wild mane of curls off my shoulders and thank myself for changing into a dress.

Of course, that could still be a bad decision. Against my better judgement, I put on something sexy. Let’s be real,sexyisn’t really in the vocabulary of my life, but I did put on something short and flirty.

The dress is orange with teal and pink stripes. It comes with a chunky belt and strappy straps—only, it’s those skinny straps that show off my arms and shoulders, and far more cleavage than is appropriate for a business meeting.

What’s gotten into me? I don’t wear flirty dresses. I don’t wear them because I don’t date. And I definitely don’t date people I work with. Flashing my skin at Simon is like playing a game of chicken with Fate. One that I will horrendously lose.

I know this.

I’ve known this for years.

And yet, here I am in a cute little dress, flashing my arms and chest like tonight might be different and I don’t havemy condition. I know, calling it a condition makes me sound like a mental patient, but sometimes I think it will drive me insane.

The problem is my body gets too hot.

Too hot, too fast.

And then out of nowhere my downtown regions think someone’s been doing the Tongue Macarena on my lady bits and—How do I put this politely? Yeah, there’s no polite way to say this—I end up orgasming in public.

Yes, I said orgasm and in public.

Not polite.

Not fun.

I know most women complain about the difficulty of orgasming, and they’d claim I’ve been given Willy Wonka’s Golden-Ticket of Easy O’s. But every wish has a dark side, and trust me, orgasming easily sounds enjoyable, but in the practicality of real life, it’s not.

I have one too many naughty thoughts and I’m crossing my legs and biting my lip and trying not to look suspicious in church, or in high-school English class, or when I’m with a client. I’m like a thirteen-year-old boy with premature ejaculation who blasts off when someone says boobs.

My teenage years were horrific. One kiss, one seemingly innocent arm around the shoulder, one slow dance and—hot tamales!—I’m running to the bathroom claiming I have IBS.

In college, I decided a strict no dating policy was the answer.

Avoid desire.

Avoid contact.

Avoid anything that might spark the fire.

In truth, Irritable Bowel Syndrome has become my go-to cover for every prickly situation. It explains my need to run to a restroom, and it effectively kills any romantic tendencies that might be brewing. I certifiably hate poo jokes, but it turns out my life has become one big IBS punchline.

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