5. Nessa

Nessa

“ I feel kind of bad loafing around like this.”

“Not me,” June said from the chaise lounge next to mine. “I’m a world-class loafer.”

“Shouldn’t we be doing something to help?”

The clip-clop of Mary Jane clogs on the cement patio followed by a shadow blocking out the sun had me squinting to open my eyes. Clarke’s pristine ponytail bounced when she shook her head. Between her honey-blonde hair and pink, pastel sundress, she looked like a Barbie doll come to life.

Plus-size & Poolside Barbie.

“Oh, we are,” she assured us, rounding the chairs to top off our iced teas. “We’re, and I quote, ‘staying out of Wesley’s way.’”

I grabbed a handful of ripe Rainier cherries from the bowl between us and popped one into my mouth. The crisp crunch was enough to make an ASMR artist weep.

It was the perfect afternoon for a backyard gathering. Yesterday’s surprise rainstorm had washed away the balmy temperatures and brought with it a cool, coastal breeze. Between the cooler weather, the never-ending supply of slutty iced tea, and the cloud-soft outdoor furniture, I might just have to move in.

Clarke and Soren certainly had room to spare.

Their house was stunning. Three bedrooms, two bathrooms, a gourmet, eat-in kitchen, and the fireplace of my dreams—perfect for rainy day reading. Plus, it came with Wes Nu?ez’s authentic Puerto Rican cooking, although that was just a temporary perk.

The happy couple had put a lot of work—and funds—into rehabbing the house since Soren had bought it back in July. It never ceased to amaze me what somebody could get done in such a short amount of time when they had the money to make it happen. Meanwhile, Nero and I had been saving to replace our dishwasher for almost a year, and we were still months away from making it a reality.

Three hundred days of handwashing had made my hands drier than the Sahara Desert.

I tipped my head back and lifted my nose. “I don’t know what he’s making, but it smells incredible.”

That was putting it lightly. I could take a bath in that garlicky, buttery goodness. The pungent aroma of herbs and some kind of seafood—shrimp, maybe—blanketed the patio.

“Seriously,” June echoed. “Wes is welcome at my place anytime. Not that there’s room for him. It’s a one-butt kind of kitchen.”

June owned and lived at Bed of Roses, a vintage trailer resort. Rose City might not have had any hotels—though town council had just approved plans for a boutique hotel on the outskirts—but we did have a collection of vintage Airstreams named after famous Roses. They had become increasingly popular with Gen Z and millennial travel vloggers over the last year or so.

“Not that I use my kitchen anyway.”

I scoffed. June was, and had always been, “cooking challenged.” And that was putting it politely. The truth was, she lived mostly off canned soup and takeout Chinese food.

I shielded my eyes with my hand and turned toward my best friend. “I’m going to take a wild guess and say the prepackaged veggie tray on the counter is yours?”

“You know me so well.”

“No judgment here,” Clarke said, lying back in the last available chaise and effectively sandwiching me between her and June. “After the last couple of weeks of unpacking and organizing, I’m worn slap out. I picked this party theme for a reason. Less work for me.”

There were two types of people in the world: those who enjoyed theme parties and the monstrous sociopaths who did not. Funny enough, they usually married each other.

Thankfully, I was of the first variety, and I had a dedicated trunk full of hats, costumes, and wigs to prove it. Not that a B.Y.O.B. party called for a cotton candy ombré wig—I was saving that for this year’s Halloween costume. That hadn’t stopped me from putting together something sweet for today’s festivities.

“Don’t tell,” Clarke said, barely louder than a whisper. Not that anybody could hear us. Last I checked, Matty was helping Wes in the kitchen while Soren prepped the barbecue. The rest of the guests were expected anytime now. “I already dipped into Nessa’s caramel sauce.”

“And?” I probed.

“To die for.” She practically moaned. “Cross my heart, when my time comes, I want to go slathered in that sauce.”

That perked me up quicker than my morning hazelnut latte. Desperate to manifest an early fall, I’d arranged a board inspired by one of my favorite autumnal treats: caramel apples.

Multiple apple varieties, a kick-ass caramel sauce recipe I’d found on Pinterest, sugary-sweet, candied nuts . . .

Alexa, play “My Favorite Things” by Julie Andrews.

For a moment, I second-guessed my choice to create a dessert board. After all, most of the party guests were Soren’s teammates, many of whom had strict diet restrictions during the season. But apples were fruit and fruit was healthy . . . even when covered in peanuts and rainbow sprinkles. Right?

“When did you say Kay gets back to town?” June prodded.

“She had to change her initial flight,” I answered honestly. “Something about a quick trip to Alaska.”

“But she’s still planning on being back in time for the festival?”

I rolled over onto my side, propping myself up with one hand. “Oh, she’s practically signed herself up for the decorations committee. Plus, she volunteered to do all the photography free of charge.”

“That sounds like Kaylani.”

“I, for one, can’t wait to meet her,” Clarke added.

“Clarke, I have to tell you.” I paused to bite down on another cherry, plucking it off the stem with my teeth. “I might never leave. This yard, the house—”

“The cherries?” June added.

“I know.” Clarke sighed wistfully. “It’s a little odd to think that six months ago, I was planning a wedding to somebody else—a man who barely knew me, mostly because I barely knew myself—and look at me now. Shacking up with a pro-baseball player three thousand miles from home.”

Clarke fingered the hem of her skirt.

“Honey,” I told her, resting my hand over her nervous fingers. “This is your home. Soren is your home.”

June came around my chair, planting herself down beside Clarke.

“Don’t forget about us,” she said, smacking her hand on top of both of ours.

I stared down at our stack and smiled. Matte black nails on unpolished claws on delicate French tips. We made quite the trio. The femme but fierce Musketeers.

When Clarke looked up, she had moisture in her eyes. “You’re right. I’m probably just being silly—”

“No,” I corrected. “You’re being a woman. It’s our burden to feel guilty for everything, especially men’s bad behavior.”

June blinked. “Damn.”

“It’s true.”

Women put up with so much shit, too much shit. Even before my dad had left, I’d seen the way my mom had excused the things he did—and didn’t do. Forgotten birthdays, missed softball games, late after school pickups—Mom had always had a reason for his absence. He couldn’t even come up with his own excuses. He hadn’t needed to when Mom had done it for him.

Until recently, Clarke had been living on her father and ex-fiancé’s terms. There was no justifiable reason for her to feel guilty simply for living her life.

I sat up, twisting to face her until we were knee to knee. “Don’t feel bad for being happy. You don’t owe anybody anything.”

She blinked back her unshed tears and smiled. “Okay.”

“Okay.”

“Okay,” June echoed. My friend had never met a party she didn’t want to be a part of, and that included a pity party.

“Okay?” a new voice added.

I glanced over my shoulder and just about fell out of my seat when I saw who was standing behind me and, more specifically, what she was wearing.

Dani in ripped jeans and leather boots was par for the course. Dani in a strapless sundress with her vibrant neck and shoulder tattoos on full display was a goddamn vision.

“Hells bells,” Clarke exclaimed at the same time as June’s, “Holy shit.”

“Damn, girl. You—” I stumbled over my words—and feet—as I climbed out of my seat to get a closer look. “You look . . . get out of the most comfortable chair in the world hot.”

All three of us surrounded her, gawking like she was the eighth Wonder of the World.

“What’s the occasion?” I asked.

“ This . . .” Clarke gestured at Dani’s ensemble. “. . . can’t just be for us.”

Our petite friend had next-to-no boobs and barely scraped 5’3”—and that was in heeled boots—but the corseted top of her dress hugged every curve like it was made for her body and her body alone. But I agreed with Clarke. This wasn’t a casual afternoon barbeque kind of look. Who was Dani trying to impress?

Dani shrugged. “Laundry day.”

A dry laugh bubbled out of me.

Laundry day my ass.

“Where do you want this?” she asked, lifting her tray and skirting the subject entirely.

Dani had been a part of our friend circle for almost as long as Clarke, but even then, it was safe to say that none of us knew her as well. She kept her cards close to her chest, guarded by an impenetrable force of sarcasm and sheer genius. Seriously, the woman was off the charts brilliant. Ten years and two therapists ago, I might have tried to date her. Alas, I had missed my shot.

Two emotionally unavailable, thirtysomething bisexuals were a recipe for disaster.

I gasped audibly when my eyes landed on the dish in her hands.

“Are those . . . ?”

“Potatoes,” June finished for me, in a mesmerized tone that rivaled Homer Simpson.

“Oh, it’s potatoes on potatoes on potatoes,” Dani said.

She wasn’t kidding. There were at least three different types of fries, plus separate ramekins stuffed full of potato salad, thickly cut potato chips, and sweet potato hash. Not to mention a wide assortment of dips, salts, and butters—a complex carbohydrate wet dream.

“Girl, you outdid yourself,” I told her. “This puts my caramel apple board to shame.”

Dani’s lips tilted up in a grin. “You overestimate my abilities. This wasn’t me.”

My brows pinched together, first with confusion and then with shock.

“Oh, no,” I said, shaking my head.

There was no use denying what I already knew to be true but was still reluctant to believe.

“Oh, yes.” Her smile widened like something out of a scary movie. “These taters are courtesy of Chef Jared Pink.”

Fuck. My. Life.

The man could cook. The man could cook?!

Damn him for putting together a superior spread of air-fried goodness.

“Mm,” Clarke said around a bite of waffle fry. “Please give my compliments to the chef because sweet heavens, that’s delicious.”

“Seriously, Ness.” June tore into her second sour cream-soaked latke. “You have to try these.”

“No, thank you.” I crossed my arms under my breasts. “I’m good.”

Now I was the one being gawked at, and it wasn’t because of my outfit, even though I looked cute as fuck. I’d finally found the perfect maxi skirt to go with my favorite bookish tee. I knew I was being stubborn. I knew—just from the smell alone—that his potato platter was fucking fantastic.

“Afternoon, ladies.”

Speak of the devil.

I had never been a religious woman, but if there was a devil, there wasn’t a doubt in my mind that he looked like Jared Pink. Effortlessly charming, 6’2”—or 6’4” on his dating app—with a smile that melted hearts and panties alike.

“What do you think of the fries?” he asked eagerly. “Oh! Did you try the latkes?”

“So good! The perfect crispness.”

June and Clarke’s voices melded together while they fawned over him and his alleged cooking prowess.

“And what do you think, angel?” he asked, zeroing in on me.

June’s eyes ping-ponged between us. “Angel?”

“Just a little inside joke,” Pink explained quickly. “Right, Nessa ?”

“Something like that.”

He lifted a brow, indicating that he was still waiting for an answer to his original question. “I’m sure they’re great, but I haven’t tried any yet.”

His head tilted to one side. “Please, help yourself.”

“Maybe later. Should we head in?”

“In a minute.”

I faltered, searching for another excuse. Any excuse. It seemed like no matter what I said or did, Pink always had a response. And that pissed me off even more because how did a twenty-four-year-old millionaire have all the answers, while I could barely string a sentence together some days?

“I haven’t . . . washed my hands.”

That was the best I could come up with—blame it on the two glasses of slutty iced tea on an empty stomach.

His eyes shone with mischief, making my heart—and vagina—flutter.

“I can fix that.”

Dani eyed him, an unspoken question in her eyes, when he reached toward the tray she was still holding. With one hand, he dragged a lone fry through a glop of pink sauce and held it out to me.

“Bite.”

“You’ve got to be joking.”

He didn’t move. Didn’t say a word or retract his hand. My eyes bounced between him and our captivated audience, all of whom were watching us like a lost episode of One Tree Hill. How could they possibly be encouraging this?

When my attention dipped down to the offering between his fingers—more specifically, to the gloppy sauce on the end of the fry—another thought crossed my mind.

“I don’t think I can eat that anyway.” This time I wasn’t making excuses. “The sauce—”

“It doesn’t have any eggs.”

I blinked, taken aback for an entirely different reason this time. I was in fact allergic to eggs, but how had he known that? He certainly hadn’t heard it from me. I could barely stand to be in the same room as the guy, so it was safe to say that we had never had a conversation about our food allergens. And yet somehow, he’d known.

Somehow, he’d remembered.

He stepped closer still. Close enough for me to smell the vinegary fry sauce and minty freshness on his breath. And all the while, his eyes never left mine.

“Bite, angel.”

His tone was firm but gentle. If the pro-baseball thing didn’t work out for him, he might want to give smutty audiobooks a go.

I opened my mouth, acting on instinct rather than reason—there’d be more than enough time for self-flagellation later. For now, I wanted to be bad. If he wanted to go low, I’d go lower.

All the way to my knees.

Okay, maybe that was a little much. But that didn’t stop me from leaning forward to close the final few inches between my mouth and his fingers. His gaze narrowed when I wrapped my lips around the fry and sucked it in.

It was official. I was never going to look at a potato the same way ever again. But I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction he desired, nor the praise he thought he deserved.

“Wow,” I said, pausing to lick my lips. Slow satisfaction spread throughout my body when his attention shifted to my tongue. “That’s . . . okay.”

His eyes widened. “Okay? Just okay?! ”

“Pretty good,” I said, bobbing my head. “A little salty.”

He tucked his hands into his pockets and stepped back. It took everything in me to keep my eyes on his upper half. Something told me that a quick glance below his waist would tell me that I wasn’t the only one affected by what would forever be known as “The Horny Potato Incident.”

I could feel the weight of my friends’ gazes on us, but the last thing I wanted was another public inquisition about my love life. It was time to end this—and him.

“But don’t worry,” I said, clapping Pink on the shoulder and nailing him with a pointed glare. “I’m sure, with some time and maybe a little coaching, you’ll eventually get them right.”

Without another word, I turned on my heels and headed toward the house. It wasn’t often I got the final word—especially when facing off with Jared Pink—so I was going to make the most of it. Besides, I was desperate to get away from prying eyes—and even more desperate to get inside and taste whatever Wes was cooking up. Hopefully, it would measure up to Pink’s fries.

Because that one bite of fried potatoes was by far the most delicious thing I had ever put in my mouth.

At least, so far.