Page 4 of Legs

He didn’t remove his hand, just studied me, his lips so full and tempting. So close to mine. A chain dipped below the top button of his shirt, the worn material shifting over what looked like a hard body. I gulped more wine, the dregs of glass three disappearing fast.

Gwen kicked my ankle. “What she meant to say was ‘My place or yours?’”

“I said what I meant.” I returned her kick and tried not to stare at the dark curls tumbling over Bad Boy’s forehead, the glistening of his plump bottom lip as he swiped his tongue over it. I was in skinny jeans, my halter top conservative except for the dip at the back, but under his scrutiny I felt naked—and it felt dangerously good.

He removed his hand from my back, nonchalance in the tilt of his head. “That’s a shame.”

With that, he turned, disappearing into the crowd, taking my rush of heat with him. I attempted to dampen the quickening of my heart, my back and ribs still tingling from his touch.

Gwen glowered at me. “What is wrong with you?”

“With me?”

“That”—she gestured in the direction Bad Boy had disappeared—“was bound to be a Hall of Fame Fuck, and you turned him down.”

Ainsley followed with a dreamy sigh. “I’d let him tie me up with that belt of his.”

“Come on,” I said. “You both know I’m not cut out for one-night stands. Forget the fact that I’m too much of a prude to enjoy that type of thing, the only reason he came over was because I shouted eating pussy. He’s probably a freak.”

“A wild and kinky freak.” Gwen craned her neck, searching for him. “Too bad I’m on an asshole break.”

Gwen’s strapless top flaunted her physique, kept toned through CrossFit, free-climbing, and surfing—anything to feel an adrenaline rush. Dangerous men also spiked her heartrate, the type who made false promises only to ditch a girl when it mattered. I knew the sort all too well.

Gabe had left his mark on me.

“What’s done is done,” I said, swirling my wineglass. “We’re out to celebrate our birthdays, and it’s almost midnight. We should make a wish. A big one this year. Something important. Something life changing.”

Something to shove my train onto a different track.

We shared glances. Ainsley twirled a lock of her golden hair around her finger, Gwen tapped her thumb, and I spun my wineglass in endless circles. My biggest stress in life since college, and every wasted diploma following, had been work. My job. My lack of purpose. Each day, before I left my apartment, I’d read the quote framed in my hall:

“Aim for the moon. If you miss, you may hit a star.” ~ W. Clement Stone

Problem was, I didn’t know the shape of my moon. It certainly didn’t look like my current loan officer gig, complete with cold calls and angry hang-ups. It didn’t look like the life coaching job I maybe lost for telling a guy his toupée was on the endangered species list. My stint as a Reiki therapist had been short-lived, too. It lasted until one client suggested I do Reiki on his cock.

Instead of aiming for the moon, I’d been bouncing around the solar system, and I’d hit nothing but refuse.

That made my wish easy. A grand ambition to find a rewarding job and start over, again, but this time I’d do it right. I’d suffer through my current boss’s thinly veiled sexual harassment as he searched for the meaning of life in the valley between my breasts. Once I found something exciting, then, and only then, would I hand in my pink slip. Year twenty-seven would be my Oscar bid. My Super Bowl win. I’d even settle for a Teen Choice Award for Best Lip Wax.

I shoved my watch in the girls’ faces. “You have one minute until midnight. I’ve got my wish, but no sharing or it won’t come true. Ready?”

Ainsley sat taller, fortitude in the press of her lips. “This will be our year. And I agree about making it a big one. Like a resolution-type wish. Something we can work toward.”

Gwen picked at her nails. “We could even bet. Make each other do something horrible if we fail.”

“I’m not doing some psycho CrossFit marathon, like dragging a tire behind me while scaling a building.” Ainsley looked horrified.

Gwen snickered. “You’re right. Betting is kinda dumb. I’ll settle on a pinky swear.”

Gwen’s pinky swear was akin to a blood oath. Guess I wasn’t the only one with a desperate wish on the line. “You mean business.”

Her eyes clouded briefly. “I do. Which means we can’t bail on our resolutions. We need to accomplish them by next year. We should even write them down, read them together at our twenty-eighth birthday.”

We agreed, and Gwen fished a notepad and pen from her purse. She passed us each a torn-out sheet. When my turn came, I wrote my resolution in all caps, no mistaking my intended goal: I WILL FIND A REWARDING JOB. Giddy, I folded my paper and handed it to Gwen, who stored our aspirations in a zippered purse pocket.

Wearing matching looks of determination, we all linked our pinky fingers.

“On the count of three,” Ainsley said, “we make our wish.”