Page 35 of Special Delivery

“Being forced to do something like that. I doubt it’s the reason you started writing.” She glances at me, her lips slightly parting. “What did you want to write about when you first started?”

“Travel writing.” Her voice is almost reluctant, her answer surprising me. I consider her a homebody.

“Why don’t you write about that?”

“I don’t really travel anymore.” Her answer scrunches my nose.

“Why not?”

“I grew out of it.” I don’t buy it for a second, but her gaze drops, letting me know I won’t be getting an honest answer.

“So you just stopped enjoying it?”

“It wasn’t realistic. It was just a dumb thing a young girl wanted to do. I’m too old for that now.”

“Are you?” I bump her shoulder with mine, and she levels me with a glare. “That means you’re stuck writing about sex toys, I guess.”

She chuckles. “I guess it does. Though, other than the few dreadfully humiliating moments in front of you, it hasn’t been that bad.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt it.” I wink playfully, and she rolls her eyes.

The joint hisses quietly as I put it out in the ashtray that was provided on the balcony and get up to my feet. My hand reaches out to help her get up.

As soon as she stands, our hands still touching, I whisper, “If you ever need any help with it… I’m just a wall away.”

Her cheeks flush instantly. “You’re an idiot.”

She disappears into her room. I’m left standing there partially high, my headache finally gone, and my thoughts wrapped up in her.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Paige

We’re all in the kitchen next morning, each of us doing our own thing. I’m scrolling on my phone while drinking coffee, Ryan is making a cup for himself, and Jordan and Emma are packing a backpack with water bottles from the fridge.

“You should come with us, Paige. Not sit in the house the whole day.” Emma purses her lips.

“Sorry, but I really need to write. I’ll get out later, when the sun isn’t so strong. Where are you going anyway?”

“Oh, we’re doing an excursion to a nearby town. We’ll be out the whole day.” She zips the backpack and motions for Jordan to grab it. “Do you have anything planned, Ryan?”

His head lifts from his coffee cup, his eyebrows raising in surprise. Jordan’s jaw clenches, but it’s small enough for Ryan not to notice.

“I’m going for a run. I’ll probably hang out on the beach later.” He shrugs noncommittally, and Jordan’s jaw relaxes.

My teeth grit together, annoyed by the way she’s treating him. I know we’re supposed to be in this together, the two sisters against Dad’s girlfriends, but he’s an innocent bystander. And maybe we’re too old for this.

“Hope you enjoy yourself.” Emma, the ray of sunshine she is, smiles warmly, which he returns with a lift to his lips.

I try to ignore how hot he looks, dressed only in a thin, worn t-shirt, and workout shorts. His hair is messy from sleep, his gorgeous eyes foggy, and he scratches his beard like he hasn’t fully woken up yet. Involuntarily, my gaze lowers to the seam of those workout shorts before quickly rising back to his face. His face isn’t the only one showing that he just woke up. I’m pretty sure he isn’t wearing any underwear, either.

A tingle starts in my core, spreading over my stomach, and I realize it’s time to go. There’s work to be done.

“Have fun.” My voice is breathy, which is embarrassing, so I make myself scarce as quickly as I can.

An hour later, the column is a steaming pile of shit. I’ve changed my writing spot three different times before finally settling on the sunken living room couch. Unlike my previous problem, where I had too little to write about, it seems that the situation is the complete opposite now. There’s a lot to write about.

The hard part is to imagine this being shared with the world. I don’t want everyone to know Ryan caught me masturbating, and not only because it’s embarrassing. It’s private, intimate. It’s a thing between the two of us I don’t want to share with the world. I can hardly share the experience with the toy, since the fantasy of Ryan doing its job shaped most of it. Even if I were to write it, it belongs on an erotica site, not on the back cover of a magazine. It’s also a challenge to even think about without getting hot and bothered. I drop my head into my hands, hoping—praying—that I can turn this junk into something worthwhile.