“Yes!” I groan “and it was…God, it was so intense. Like, brain-melting good. Like I forgot my own name kinda good.”
I lay back on the bed.
The memory of Grant’s mouth on me, his hands gripping my thighs, the raw hunger in his kiss playing through my mind—I can still feel every inch of it. The way he looked at me like I was the only thing in this world. Like heneededme. Like I was his. And I… I didn’t stop it. I didn’twantto stop it. Not even a little.
“Honey, you didn’t just forget your name, Mia. You lost your passport, your wallet, and possibly your mind.”
“I panicked, Brè. After…I…I ran.” I stammer out the words.
“Of course you did. That’s your Olympic event, isn’t it? Emotional avoidance 100-meter dash.”
I sigh. “I just needed air.”
“From his mouth or the atmosphere? Because from where I’m standing, you sound winded, not wounded.”
I’m quiet for a beat, staring at the ceiling like it’s got the answers.
“I liked it, Brè. More than I should.”
Brè softens, her voice dropping into her rare, quieter tone. “So what now? You just gonna drink wine in that motel room and wallow like you’re starring in a country music video?”
“Actually, yes. That’s the plan.”
She clicks her tongue. “I was going to ask what you think of Portree, but clearly it’s working overtime to ruin your emotional firewall.”
I blink. “Honestly? It’s not half bad here.” I groan, disbelieving of the words currently leaving my mouth. “It’s slow. It’s weird. But… it’s...nice.”
There’s a beat of stunned silence on the other end.
“You? Liking a town without sushi or same-day delivery?” The disbelief apparent in Brè’s voice.
“I know. I’m disturbed too.”
“Well, then stay.” She says it like it’s no big deal.
I sit up. “What?”
“Stay longer. Take a beat. Lick your wounds. Lick something else if the mood strikes.”
“Brè—”
“I’m serious. You don’t have your bank cards, your ID, your passport—you got tongue fucked by the local hero—you’re already legally a Portree resident at this point.”
I snort. “And how exactly am I supposed to survive here without those things?”
She laughs. “Oh please,” Brè drawls, her voice smug enough to file its own tax bracket. “I’ve already emailed the U.S. Department of State. Everything is getting sorted. You’ll have you’re temporary ID in no time—because I have a very flexible fling who works in foreign affairs. And your replacement bankcards? Well, they will issued within the next ten days by the bank, courtesy of anotherhighly cooperativefling, who happens to be their CEO.”
I blink. “Are youkiddingme?” I say in disbelief.
“Do Isoundlike I’m kidding?” she says in her most smug voice, like she’s adjusting a diamond ring just to make a point “Darling, I didn’t survive my ex, three corporate restructures, and that HR scandal of 2019 without developing a very particular set of skills. Strategic dating, babe. It's like LinkedIn, but with orgasms.
“And you’re welcome.” She chimes.
I let out a breathy laugh, rubbing my temple. “Brè, thank you , thank you. I can’t thank you enough! You are... hands down... my mosthormonally resourcefulfriend. Like, if espionage and lust had a baby—it’d be you.”
“Damn right it would.” She practically beams through the phone. “I’m not here to inspire envy darling, I’m here to get shitdone.” she says proudly.
“Now pour yourself another glass of wine and enjoy your stay, while you keep thanking your girl for being the horny little fairy godmother you never knew you needed.”
