Page 40

A SEX SCHEDULE

Sabrina

I’m counting down the days until the next time. Counting and researching. Watching videos, reading very naughty books, and jotting down ideas for our Five Sessions of Sex School.

And who better to brainstorm with than my girlfriends?

With Tyler at the arena for a workout and the kids at school, I head to Moon Over Milkshakes, the retro-themed diner my friends love. The beachy music plays at a reasonable volume now, which is a nice change—it used to be way too loud.

I spot my crew right away, wave, and slide into the booth with a bump of my hip against Isla’s. I’m just in that kind of mood.

It’s been a week since Tyler turned my legs to jelly, and I am ready and waiting for the next round.

“You might be wondering why I called this meeting, ladies,” I say, addressing the assembled crew—Isla, Leighton, Skylar, and Maeve. Everly and Josie couldn’t slip away from work.

Maeve arches a brow. “Well, considering your text told us to bring our dirtiest ideas, I had a clue.”

“Fine, fine. I wanted to be dramatic,” I say, grabbing the menus and doling them out. “Now, hurry. Order. We need food, and then I need ideas for naughty, dirty, filthy , toe-curling sex.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Leighton says, smirking.

Once we order, I nod toward her. “And thanks again for asking them to turn the music down. It’s so much nicer here now.”

“I agree,” Isla says.

Leighton just smiles, then taps the table. “Have you considered hand necklaces?”

I blink. “Do I want that?”

“I highly recommend it.”

“Noted.” I type it into my phone, then turn to Isla for her input but she snatches my phone.

“What was that for?”

“For doubting me,” she says, holding my phone hostage behind her back as she dips her other hand into her purse.

“What are you talking about?”

She whips out her hand theatrically, clutching a red hardcover journal with foiled gold letters on the front—My Tiny Sex Diary.

A laugh bursts from me. “Shut up.”

“No, you shut up. How dare you take notes on your phone when you’re with me?” she says, giving me the hardest of hard times.

I dip my face obsequiously. “Forgive me, notebook queen.”

“Seriously, what were you thinking?” Leighton teases.

“Evidently I wasn’t,” I say .

Isla hands me the notebook ceremoniously. “As soon as you mentioned your sex lessons the other night, I ordered this just for you.”

“Please tell me it doesn’t have one of those embossed From the library of Sabrina Snow stamps on the first page,” I say.

“No, but I can add that,” Isla says helpfully and the thing is—she would. She’d special order the stamp from an Etsy shop in seconds.

“That won’t be necessary.”

“But here you go,” she says, gently opening the book. The beginning offers pages for lists, and then after that it includes a section for the date, the “Summary of the Experience,” and ratings on a five-star scale. “I always find it’s best to take notes by hand. They stick longer.”

“And we want that man to make things really, really stick,” Maeve puts in, unable to resist that one.

I laugh, then set the tiny book on the table, accepting the pen, too, that Isla hands me. I ask her, “Okay, what do you think I should add to my list of five pleasures?”

She exhales dramatically. “I wish I knew. It’s been forever for me. Honestly, at this point, if the right man just blows on my ear , I might come.”

I lift a brow. “Ear play?”

Skylar chuckles. “My dog licks my ears. And my face. Every single night.”

I tilt my head. “Ears and face? He sounds very thorough.”

“He is .” She sighs, like she’s resigned herself to this fate. “I mean, I can’t be mad about it. I do cuddle him every night. And he’s a Doxie mix, so how could I not?”

“And is there a sex tip somewhere in that?” Isla asks dryly.

Skylar holds up her hands. “Oh god, no. But since dogs know all our secrets, if you asked him, he’d probably recommend,” she leans in and lowers her voice, whispering the name of a porn site.

I perk up. “Ooh, role-play section . Noted.” I write that down on a page.

Maeve leans forward. “I’d also suggest some toys. I’m a big fan of bringing another party to the bedroom.”

I shift in my seat, already warming to the idea. “What kind of party are we talking? A guest star or more of a supporting role ?”

Maeve winks. “Depends on how adventurous you’re feeling.”

I nod, adding that to my growing list. The possibilities are stacking up fast, and I’m very into it. The server swings by with our drinks, and we thank her. Once she’s gone, Isla says, “I feel like I should be taking notes too. You know, for…science.”

Skylar grins. “Right? This is basically a public service.”

Maeve lifts her milkshake. “I’d also suggest you might want to ask him to?—”

She mouths the words, giving me a wild idea.

“Oh, that does sound like fun,” I say, raising my glass to meet hers.

And if Tyler had me screaming his name last time, he has no idea what’s coming next.

But first, there’s a bag outside my apartment when I return after lunch before picking up the kids. A little shimmy runs through me as I cross the distance from the garage and pick it up. This man and his surprise gifts.

This bag is the smallest one yet. It’s orange and blue—the team colors for the city’s football team. I dip my hand in, fishing past light blue tissue paper to find…two tickets to a football game.

For this weekend. When Elle has the kids till shortly after the game.

I clutch the tickets to my chest a little too long. I smile a little too wide. And I probably assume a little too much. But his words from a week ago ring in my head.

I was going to ask you to go to a baseball game and debate the umpires. I was going to see if you wanted to play mini golf—and then ask if I could make you scream in pleasure.

When I reach inside the bag once more, I find a card.

Wanna go with me?

—T

My stomach flips. Forget last week’s words on what might have been. I’ll take these brand-new ones now on what will be , thank you very much.

I hold the card tightly and go inside, tucking it into the notebook by my bed, right with all the other ones he’s given me. The one from the morning after my not-wedding, the one from the gift of sheets, the one from the Sea Dogs hoodie. And the bag with yoga gifts.

At this rate, he’ll have a whole notebook to himself to go along with the sex diary. Fitting.

After I text him my yes, his words echo in my head for the rest of the day— Wanna go with me? They’re written, but I can hear them as clearly as if he’d spoken them. I can hear the vulnerability in this subtle way of asking me out.

Now, there’s something else I can’t wait for, and it’s not just because I love football. But as I swing open the car door so I can pick up the kids, my phone buzzes. It’s an email from Elena, confirming our next appointment.

Hot shame washes through me. She encouraged me to turn my list-keeping habit around. To use it for good with my list of good things that have happened. Does that really include keeping track of sweet notes the man who signs my paychecks leaves for me?

I sink down in the front seat, pausing before I start the car so I can mull over what the hell I’m doing.

On the one hand, this whole sex list is ridiculously risky. But then, so is doing a triple loop with blades on my feet, and I still do those. I’ve done them for decades.

I confirm the next appointment, then head to the school.

“Are you kidding me? That was holding!” I shout from our sweet seats on the fifty-yard line. “Are you paid by the other team?”

The ref doesn’t answer me, of course. He just stalks down the sidelines, completely ignoring the way the Dallas team’s offensive lineman tackled the pass rusher—and seeming oblivious, too, to the sea of boos swelling around him.

Like the stocky Renegades fan in front of us, who sloshes his beer as he throws his hands up in frustration.

I snap my gaze to Tyler, but he’s already on his feet, a fierce energy radiating from him. “C’mon! That’s the second time you missed a holding call,” Tyler shouts to the field, chastising the officials.

The stocky guy in the Slater jersey (repping the Renegades quarterback Holden Slater) in front of us spins around. “Right? These refs suck,” he says.

“They’re worse than the refs who suck up to the entire Kansas City team,” I put in, pointing angrily past the sea of blue and orange jerseys to the guys in black and white who are ruining this game.

Tyler scoffs, then snorts.

Oh. Did I just say that out loud?

The guy in front of us lifts his nearly empty beer cup in approval. “You called it. The refs are obsessed with KC.”

Tyler looks at me, eyebrows arching.

“Sorry, was that rude?” I deadpan.

Tyler just laughs. “To whom? The refs? Nope.” His eyes glint as he leans in closer, his shoulder bumping mine.

When we’re seated he slips his hand across my lap and into the pocket of my sweatshirt—it’s a Sea Dogs hoodie, the one he gave me before the team’s first home game of the season.

His fingers find mine inside the pocket, and he threads them together, sending sparks all over my skin.

Then, he shifts closer, his beard whisking across my cheek, his mouth near my ear. “Want to debate the refs some more?”

A shiver runs through me. Not from the words, but from his tone—low and raspy. “Is that code for something?” I ask.

“Maybe it is,” he murmurs, then sneaks in a nibble on my earlobe before pulling back, turning his attention to the field.

“C’mon, D! Let’s do this!” he shouts as the Renegades defense holds off the Dallas offense, forcing a punt.

He cheers, and a few minutes later, the offense is back on the field, the team’s quarterback leading the charge.

“C’mon, Slater! You better throw a football better than you hit a golf ball,” he says.

I arch a brow, then whistle in appreciation. “Hello, trash talker. What was that about?”

“He’s one of the guys I played golf with over the summer. We were teammates in that tournament in Cozy Valley.”