Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 91536 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91536 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
But I can’t agree without more information. "Why do you need a fake girlfriend?"
"It's a long story."
"I have time." I take a long sip.
He smiles, pure charm. Somehow, his dark eyes contain the perfect mix of desire, approval, and coyness. It's like he's wrapping me in a blanket of compliments without coming across as desperate or overly attached.
How does he do that?
Or maybe it's me. Maybe I'm attached to the first good fuck I've had in a long, long time. Maybe I'm not one of those women who can’t enjoy casual sex. Maybe I catch feelings.
"I'm used to good coffee. A lot of people are these days." He takes a long sip. "There are options, even here in Orange County. We have Philz, for pour-overs. Local stores. But where can people go for a latte? Or a single-origin espresso?"
What? "I told you. I'm a tea person."
"It suits you. Zen. Subtle."
"I appreciate the compliment, but maybe…" I motion for him to move things along.
"Too much practice teasing, huh?" He takes a long sip and lets out a soft sigh. Not one of pleasure. Something else. Exhaustion, I think. "You met my mother. She's from Italy. We spent summers there, sipping macchiatos at cafes."
"Sounds nice," I say. I’m happy for him. Really. It sounds like he has a lovely family. But what does that have to do with me?
"My father was from Mexico."
Was. So he's no more. Again, I’m sympathetic, but I’m not seeing the connection.
"We were there too. Went to coffee farms. Mexico is still ignored, in the world of coffee and chocolate. When we were kids, my brother and I talked about that. How we were going to change it. Bring our parents' love together to make a shop that married their backgrounds. Mexican coffee and chocolate in an Italian style coffee bar."
Sounds like a nice business. And still, no idea what it has to do with me."What happened?"
"He's always putting it off. Because he doesn't respect me. Thinks I can't commit to anything."
"What's he think you do?"
"Nothing," he says. "I tell him I do accounting for small businesses, but he assumes Mom is paying my bills."
"But, really, you're making all your money, running this small business?"
He nods. "I won't pretend I'm the world's best businessman, but I know a lot. I have a partner."
I swallow a sip, so I won't reply. So I won’t go down a rabbit hole. I’m not his therapist. I’m not slipping into therapist mode.
"A business partner," he says. "Strictly professional. And platonic."
"How can a professional relationship be platonic in your line of work?"
He chuckles. "We did go on a call together once, but it was a train wreck. We couldn't stop giggling over the absurdity of seeing each other naked."
"But you run this business together?" I'm curious about his colleague. And how it all works. And, dammit, I’m already going into therapist mode. “So what does this all have to do with me, Romeo?”
“He won’t go into business with me, because he thinks I’m a fuck-up who can’t commit to anything. If I can commit to someone smart and responsible…”
“Then he’ll want to create a company with you?”
“And he’s getting married. So I need to come with a date anyway.”
I’m not sure I see the vision, but I suppose I do see the logic. He wants his family to believe he's got a nice, normal girlfriend.
Which is not what many people think when they meet a sex therapist. Even back in college, when I was studying psychology undergrad, and I first decided to go into sex therapy, I got the weirdest responses from people.
Some were intrigued. Some found it cool. Others suggested I was a freak or a pervert or a slut because of the interest.
Mostly, they hinted at it. This is California, after all. We’re polite here. But they got the point across.
What sort of weirdo wants to help people fuck for a living?
After my first year in grad school, I learned how to own it. Sure, call me Doctor Good-Fuck. Of course I know which vibrators are the best. Will I talk to your teenager about sex? Why not? I got a lot of practice for my role as no-nonsense super-freak Doctor O.
"Are you sure your brother will be convinced by someone like me?" I ask.
"A doctor?" he asks.
"With a PhD in fucking," I say.
He chuckles. "Have people really said that."
"A few."
"Did you tell Mom?" he asks.
I shake my head. "I didn't want to…" Force him to stick with any one story. "Put you in a corner."
He nods. "She'll love it. Daniel, not as much, but he'll like that you're a doctor. And he'll understand it. I… well, let's say I turned my hobby into a career."
That’s quite the euphemism. It’s honest, without being truthful. Is he not a truthful person? No, dammit, we’re not in therapy. Though I do need to get to know him if I’m going to play his girlfriend.