Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 111610 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 558(@200wpm)___ 446(@250wpm)___ 372(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 111610 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 558(@200wpm)___ 446(@250wpm)___ 372(@300wpm)
I’d love to give him a recommendation for a grief counselor who could help, but he’s probably seen one already or isn’t ready to face that loss yet. And professionally, it’s not really my place. Still, my heart breaks for him a little. Nobody deserves that kind of pain.
“Is Gracie here?” I ask Cameron.
He shrugs but still answers, “She’s with a sitter. She’ll be here soon.”
“I saw her at the park the other day. She's growing up so fast! I think she and my sister had fun with Peanut Butter,” I say, trying to make conversation with him.
“Yeah.”
Okay, so either he’s not a conversationalist or he doesn’t want to talk with me.
“I didn’t know you have a sister,” Miranda interjects, covering for Cameron.
I nod affirmatively. “Yeah, Olivia’s sixteen, with all the accompanying drama. My mom’s basically going for sainthood with that one.” I smile lightly as if teen girls and drama are an absolute given.
Miranda winks at Kayla. “Well, I wouldn’t know. My daughter was, and is, an absolute angel.” Everyone here knows that Kayla is no such thing. Chance describes his sister as ‘a bomb in pretty packaging’, and I imagine that’s a developed trait to make Charles proud of her considering she’s not one of his favored sons.
“How’d you two meet?” Beth asks. “Did I catch that you and Luna are friends?”
I look to Chance, letting him take this one. He can share as much or as little as he wants about us, though I don’t expect him to say we’re hooking up and I’m only here because Kayla invited me.
“They are,” Chance starts, “but somehow, I’d never met Samantha through Luna since I missed the ‘wedding’.” He says it with air quotes because technically, it was Luna and Carter’s vow renewal that he missed. Their wedding was teeny-tiny and drama-filled. “But Samantha and I ran into each other one day at a, uh . . . conference, and we hit it off.”
I grin, trying to swallow the giggle at our dicks-out meeting being called a conference, and oh, did we ‘hit it off’ in a spectacular show of fireworks and orgasms. Chance places a heavy hand on my thigh, reading my mind.
“She’s helping at the Gentlemen’s Club now too, offering classes for our members. I think Evan and I have her talked into being a guest on our podcast as well.” He sounds proud—of himself, his business, and me.
“Oh, that’s lovely. What sort of classes?”
Beth’s seemingly innocuous follow-up leads right into dangerous territory, and I can feel Chance’s stress as he tries to figure out the best way to describe what I’m bringing to the club table.
But I’ve done this before. My scope of practice is always a shock for people, and I’ve learned that blunt professionalism is best to dissuade any lewd jokes or tactless commentary.
Taking over, I say, “I’m finishing my graduate studies in psychology, with a focus on intimate relationships. I’m helping the club members reshape expectations born of decades of indoctrination to find more intentional mental space, which will allow them to be good partners in their romantic relationships.”
Beth blinks and then looks at Chuck. “Did you catch that?” He doesn’t move his head in the slightest, which I take to be a no. Turning back to me, Beth says, “Tell it to me like I’m stupid.”
She’s no such thing. If anything, I’d bet she’s the most emotionally intelligent person at this table, having grown up in a time of ‘sit still and look pretty’ but somehow managing to become a powerhouse in her own home. Oh, Chuck’s the boss, but I suspect it’s because Beth lets him be. Or think that he is. She’s a wily one.
So I do what she asks and break it down to essentials. “I’m a sex therapist, focusing on mental wellness and physical satisfaction.”
“Oh,” she says, her eyes blank. “Oh!” she suddenly exclaims, having realized what I said.
Winking at her, I quip, “Exactly.”
I leave out the Bedroom Heaven gig, deciding I’ve already pushed dinner conversation far enough.
But Charles sputters, “You do what now? At my son’s club? Oh, I don’t think so. Chance.”
Charles looks to Chance as though his disagreement will have instant sway, like Chance will jump away from me in horror and hiss, “Back away, demon spawn. And stay away from my club.”
Just because his daddy said so.
Of course, that’s not going to happen.
Chance lets go of my hand beneath the table to pointedly lay his arm on the back of my chair, visibly claiming me to his father. With a deadly smile on his face, Chance tells his father, “The change in our members since Samantha began classes is measurable. She’s worked wonders on my mental health too, helping find my . . . what’d you call it?”
When he looks at me expectantly, there are so many things I want to say, prostate being at the top of the list because I know it’ll go over like a fart in church. But going easy, I ad-lib, “Your give-a-shitter?”