Page 22

Hartford

“Wait, did you say BDSM?” My eyes widen as I process my boss’s unexpected assignment detail. “As in…bondage? Forgive me if I’m misunderstanding and there is another meaning for BDSM, like Bread?—”

Mr. Charleston’s hearty laughter cuts me off and ripples through his office before he confirms he indeed meant bondage.

“Don’t look so shocked, Hartford. Takes every type to make the world interesting. I want you to uncover all the mysteries,” he says, resting his forearms on his mahogany desk.

I jot in my notebook, uncover all the things and wow as I nod, attempting to grasp the gravity of this peculiar assignment. In the year I’ve worked at Cobblestone Chronicles , my lifestyle pieces have focused on ordinary topics. Local festivals, music, or family-focused activities.

Five minutes ago, when I entered Mr. Charleston’s office, I expected accolades for my piece on 10 Ways to Make The Internet Safer for Your Kids . Little did I know, he would ask me to forget all those safety tips and delve into the dark corners of the internet for an exposé on BDSM.

“Right. All the things. Such as...” I let my words linger in the air, the atmosphere thick with curiosity.

“As I see it,” Mr. Charleston says, “women who read Cobblestone Chronicles want adventure in their life. They want excitement. They want to explore their sexuality. We need to give that to them.”

I swallow past the boulder lodged in my throat and jot down the word adventure , followed by sex in my notebook.

“BDSM is no longer confined to dark clubs or basements.” He leans back in his leather chair. “This is a new era, and today’s movies and books have normalized it from being a dirty secret to something any mom can do in her house. Can they though? You’ll give them that experience and let them decide.”

I nod in agreement, my pen capturing his words in my notes:

Watch dirty movies.

Buy erotic books.

Moms can tie themselves up at home.

WTF?

I glance up from my notebook and meet his gaze. “Right, yes. Okay, I’ll research BDSM and get that to you.”

“That’s the thing,” he says. “I don’t want an ordinary internet search. I want bigger—better. I want you to use those phenomenal journalistic skills I know you have and give me an article that our readers won’t expect. Something that will catch their attention. Something that will put us on the map, grow our readership. If you don’t feel comfortable, I can find someone else.”

Seconds tick by as I consider whether to pass on this assignment. I should bow out gracefully, but my ambition to leave a mark with my writing and reach a global audience is difficult to ignore. “I can do this.”

Mr. Charleston’s grin emerges beneath his shaggy, overgrown mustache. “Good. My plan is to add a new feature called Ridge Reflections to our online platform. People gossip in this town, so I realize you may want to keep this private. I have no problem with you using a pen name.”

“Okay, I’ll think about whether I want to use one.”

“When this idea came to me, I did a little research myself and they have local meetups for BDSM. They’re called munches. You should be able to get great interviews.”

I can’t stop nodding at this point as I make more notes:

Don’t have a heart attack.

Munch while interviewing people in bondage gear.

“Have the final proof in my inbox in three weeks,” he declares, wrapping up our unusual conversation with a deadline hanging in the air.

As I stand, I push my glasses further up my nose with a shaky finger. “Thank you for the opportunity,” I tell him before I leave his office in a panicked daze.

I know nothing about BDSM. Never been inclined to change that fact. The last time I had sex was a year ago.

After my breakup with Grant, the desire to jump back into the dating scene didn’t excite me. Sex has never been a monumental aspect of my life. My girlfriends insist I haven’t found the right man to sweep me off my feet, but I wonder if I’m just not that into it.

Can someone simply not find pleasure in sex? Is that a valid thing? Because, truth be told, it hasn’t been a priority for me. Now, as I embark on this unexpected journey into the world of BDSM, I can’t help but question my stance on the matter. Maybe this exploration will lead me to unravel more than just the intricacies of a provocative lifestyle.

It’s quitting time, so I push away lingering concerns about the assignment and head to my cubicle to gather my things.

“Are you rushing home to chill with Paxton?” Delia asks as I hustle past her desk. “Let me guess. Pad Thai for dinner?”

I stop outside her cubicle. “Yeah, it’s his favorite.” Paxton travels a lot for his job, so he likes to have one day a week where he gets to unwind and relax over his favorite meal. And I’m happy to oblige him. This has been our quirky tradition for over ten years, dating back to his fifteenth birthday, where he ate about half his weight in Pad Thai.

She shakes her head, a cascade of silken strands tumbling around her shoulders like liquid gold, and a soft smile graces her lips, illuminating her face with a radiant warmth. Her brown eyes shine with mischief. “When are you two gonna finally get off your asses and date already?”

I shoot her a quizzical expression, my eyebrows quirking up in amusement. “It’s not like that. We’re best friends.”

People might think I’m strange for having a male best friend, but who cares? It works for us. Paxton is that rare soul on this planet who truly understands me. Our friendship defies stereotypes, built on a connection that’s deeper than societal expectations. He’s my confidant, my partner in crime, and the one person who sees me for who I am. And in a world full of labels and judgments, having a friend like Paxton is a refreshing reminder that genuine connections know no boundaries.

“I heard Mr. Charleston gave you the BDSM assignment.”

My shoulders slump at the mention of my assignment. “Yeah.”

“You should ask Paxton to help you.”

I scrunch my face up in exaggerated distaste. “Heck no.”

“Think about it,” she calls after me as I head out.

I won’t think about it because Paxton and I don’t have that type of relationship. We never have. Our friendship began in kindergarten when the teacher told me to take a seat next to him. He sealed our bestie status when he gave me a red crayon, saying he didn’t like the color but thought I might because it would look pretty with my auburn hair.

I can’t lie and say Delia’s suggestion about Paxton doesn’t ramble through my head on the drive home. If anyone would look phenomenal administering pain, it would be him. I’ve watched him grow from a skinny boy to a muscular man, and I’m not made of stone. I’ve had my moments of wanting to trip and fall into his lips. But we’re friends. And always will be.

Usually, when I pull up to my cottage-style house, I instantly relax because it exudes quaint and cozy. It has character in its weathered white walls. I adore the bright blue shutters and pink flowers under the windows. I especially love the rocking chair on the front porch. Today, all I can think is this does not look like the house of someone about to embark on a BDSM mission.

I rent it from my aunt, who has retired to Florida, so we’ll blame her for the storybook-cottage vibe.

I head inside my place, drop my purse and keys on the kitchen counter, and order our food. I can’t wait until Paxton gets here and we can stuff our faces with beer and Pad Thai.

His family owns the local brewery, Atta Boy, and he gets me free beer all the time. Sometimes free food too.

Score, right?

With hurried hands I fluff the yellow pillows on the plush light-blue sofa, the soft fabric yielding to my touch. The couch is worn with years of snuggling up with a good book, or watching movies with Paxton. There’s a vintage record player on a shelf in the corner, playing soft music giving off relaxing vibes, which I love to do after work. I arrange a few knick-knacks along the shelf, smiling at the photo of Paxton and me taken down by the shore the day of our high school graduation. We were so full of happiness that day, knowing we had our whole lives ahead of us.

The doorbell rings, and I don’t need to peep through the peephole because I know who’s on the other side.

“Hey,” I say as I open the door.

Paxton steps inside with a backpack slung over one of his broad shoulders. “Hey, you. How was work?”

As usual, it takes me a moment to acclimate to Paxton’s presence. He’s got luscious dark hair and these dazzling green eyes that change their shade, depending on his mood. Like mood eyes. So sexy. He's tall and ripped. Not overly muscled, just the right amount. His lean body is the kind you want to explore with your fingertips, all the nooks and crannies. Not that I would ever do that, mind you.

My eyes follow his every movement as he sets down his backpack, ready to fill him in on my unusual day. “Well, my boss wants me to write an exposé on BDSM.”

Paxton’s green eyes zip to mine. “What?”

He follows me to the kitchen.

“Yeah, he wants me to learn, and I quote, all the things ,” I say, using my fingers as air quotes.

“What?” he says, his eyes glued to mine.

“Yes, he thinks I need to go to a local meet up and learn all about BDSM.”

“What?”

“Please stop saying what,” I tell him, glancing at his backpack. “What’s this?”

His eyes are wide, possibly still processing what I was telling him about BDSM. “Okay, we’re going to have to circle back to the BDSM thing, but I brought you beer samples.”

“Oh, gimme.” I hold out my grabby hands.

He chuckles as he unzips the backpack and hands me an IPA. “You know why we’re best friends?”

“Lack of options?”

“No,” he drawls. “It’s because you’re the only girl who likes beer.”

“That’s not true. Tons of women drink beer. Your brewery has an entire line of beer dedicated to women with pink bottles.”

“Okay, you’re the only girl I know personally who likes beer.”

I laugh. “That’s not true either. You’re forgetting about Anya.”

“She doesn’t count.”

“She so counts.”

“Little sisters don’t count,” he hops up on the kitchen counter, effortlessly making himself at home. With a nonchalant air, he cracks open his beer can, taking a casual swig as if the counter were his personal throne. “Besides, I don’t want to be best friends with my little sister.”

I open my can, initiating a toast by tapping the aluminum against his. “Fair enough. So, about my article. I honestly don’t even know where to start. He wants an article that is really in depth. Googling some key phrases won’t be enough. ”

He twists his beer can in his hands and then shocks me by saying, “I can help you with it.”

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