Page 2 of Our Scorching Summer

After getting all six feet of him into the recovery position, I spent the next five minutes debating how I’d plead in a court of law:Sorry, Your Honor, my pussy is so good, it kills men. Or what exactly I’d tell the paramedics if I were to call an ambulance:One minute he was in, and the next, well, you see.

Mr. Penthouse woke eventually, peeling open his eyelids with the might of someone who’d taken the nap of the century. He brushed the whole thing off and fell asleep like it wasn’t the most mortifying thing I’d ever witnessed. His exact excuse wasIt’s no big deal; sometimes I pass out when I get too excited.

Maybe next time, consider listing such a riveting fact front and center on your dating profile.

The beginning of a headache attacks my temples. I glance at the clock on the dashboard.

11:02 am.

Fuck.Why’d I decide to spend the night?

Now I’m running a few minutes late to my bartending shift.

I pull out my phone and quickly shoot my boss, Evelyn, a text.

Lily

Hey I’ll be there in fifteen. Got trapped under some dead weight.

Scanning through an abundance of emails, my eyes finally land on the one I’ve been waiting for all week.

Grand City Institute:

Final Exam Grades have been posted.

I log into my school portal and smile at the two beautiful As beside my business finals.

Perfect.

I click into the creative writing class that I winged this semester.

A grotesquely bold letter D glares at me like the invasive shine of headlights.

My phone nearly drops out of my hand.

Definitely not the type of D I expected to receive today.

I scroll to find my final semester grade. For fuck’s sake—I failedthe class. Maybe I wouldn’t be in this position if my professor had let me make up the midterm I missed when I had the flu.

Honestly, I’ve never felt this much concentrated aggression from a simple grade before. He could’ve nestled an F next to the letter Uand the message would have been the same.

My paper wasn’t that bad.

What went wrong?

I open Professor Miller’s commentary on my final:If you want to be taken seriously, don’t write romance…

I massage the crescendo of throbbing pain gathered at my forehead.

It probably wasn’t the brightest idea to submit a steamy novella as my final project, but I was too busy cramming for my other classes and picking up extra bartending shifts to write anything else. Plus, it technically fit the parameters for the creative writing assignment.

Obviously, the chapters detailing the many ways one can get frisky in a coastal beach house were not my professor’s cup of tea.

I’m sure my readers will enjoy my story more than the jerk teacher did.

The cab halts at the Mademoiselle, and I hand over the cash from Mr. Penthouse’s wallet. It’s enough to cover the fare plus tip.

When I go to unlock the door to the bar, it’s already open. It’s impossible to miss Evelyn’s hefty frame and hammerhead expression as she stands behind the mahogany bar, whispering something to herself. Evelyn’s silver hair is tied into a neat bun atop her head, and her signature pink lipstick smothers an unusually tight line across her mouth.

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