---

Voice message: Pick up the phone, Amanda. I have something very important to discuss with you. This can’t be done via text, okay? Seriously, this is voice-activated information only.

I’ll call back in five minutes. Pick up.

---

Two minutes later…

---

Voicemail message: I couldn’t wait five minutes. I need to talk to you now. Why aren’t you answering the phone? Why can’t you compromise with me, woman? I promise I won’t call you again for an entire month if you’ll pick up the phone the next time I call okay?

Pretty please with sugar on top?

Because you love me and understand sometimes I need to hear a voice aside from the one in my head?

Okay, I’m calling back in five minutes. Talk to you then.

---

Three minutes later…

---

Voicemail message: Oh my God, please pick up the phone! I know you’re not at work because I called the hospital and they said you were off today. Please, Amanda, I’m freaking out, and I need to talk to someone. I can’t talk to my brother because he’ll lose his shit if he finds out I’m sleeping with someone on his team, and I can’t talk to Carly because she’s happy and in love and doesn’t understand my need to not sleep with guys I think I could have feelings for.

But I can’t do this again. I seriously can’t.

Only I don’t know if I can stop…

This guy has a magical dick, Mandy. His dick is like a unicorn. His dick has basically proven the existence of unicorns. I now believe in unicorns. For real, I’m not kidding.

Call me back, please.

Please, please, please!

---

I end the call with a sigh, flop back into the hammock in the shade at the edge of the backyard, and take another drag on my rapidly dwindling joint, my clenched jaw relaxing as the migraine that’s been clawing away at my skull all morning finally recedes.

But it will be back. I have no doubt about that.

I’m finished with the wedding photo processing and color correction work from my friend Jill, who is a wedding photographer in Seattle, and she paid me promptly, but that’s only going to keep me in groceries for a week or two. I have to find a full-time job. I’ve sent out what feels like a gazillion resumes, but so far I’ve only received one glimmer of interest aside from the disastrous fashion interview, and that job—PR for a pair of ski resorts—isn’t interviewing until October.

By October I will be broke.

“Flat-ass broke,” I confess to the oak leaves waving gently overhead, wondering if the phrase comes from being so poor that you can’t afford food so your ass gradually deflates until you’re just skin, bones, and saggy cheeks where your formerly bodacious backside used to be.

And of course, thinking of bodacious asses makes me think of Tanner and how insanely hot it was to watch his ass muscles clench in the bathroom mirror while he fucked me in the shower last night. Before I can warn my brain to take it easy, I’m so turned on by the erotic walk down memory lane that I know exactly how I’ll be greeting my roomie when he gets home.

I promised myself that today would be the day I tell Tanner we have to tap the brakes on the non-stop fuck-fest, but I am clearly helpless to resist the man.

“Magical unicorn penis,” I whisper to the leaves, which flutter faster in response because they get it. They totally get it.

Amanda will probably get it, too. In the early days, she dubbed her boyfriend Arnold “Wonderdick” because his dick was wonderful and so was he. But as time passed and Arnold turned out to be an emotionally manipulative, commitment-phobic ass-hat, his name came to mean something else.

At least to me. Now Wonderdick refers to the fact that he’s basically a superhero jerk.

But Mandy keeps getting back together with the schmuck. She literally seems helpless to resist him, no matter how bad things ended between them the last time they broke up.

Is that what’s going to happen to me if I stay here and keep falling onto Tanner’s magical penis every chance I get? Will I eventually get hooked on him like a drug? Or worse, will I betray the promises I made to myself and let feelings into the picture?

Just the thought of it is enough to send a cold wave of panic washing through my happy buzz. I can’t do feelings. I just can’t. Feelings always end the same way—in disaster—and as an unemployed nearly-thirty-year-old in the midst of a quarter-life crisis, I can’t do disaster right now.

I grab my phone, intending to call Amanda again and leave such a long, desperate message that she’ll have to call me back—or at least feel like a sorry excuse for a human being for refusing to pick up—when Tanner’s face suddenly appears overhead, prompting the leaves behind him to dance happily in the breeze.

“Shit,” I breathe, laughing as I let my phone fall back onto the hammock beside me. “You scared me.”

“How’s the headache?” He sits down, making the hammock sink and my hips slide his way.

“Better.” I hold out the remains of my joint. “Want to put that out for me?”

Tanner takes the gently smoking nub and stabs it out in the grass before turning back to me and laying a hand on my thigh. It’s a proprietary hand, one that asserts ownership, or at least stewardship, over my body.

But before I can sort out why that’s not as troubling as it should be, Tanner says, “I’ve got a surprise for you,” and happy bubbles fizz through my bloodstream, distracting me.

Because what, I ask you, is more wonderful than a surprise? Especially when you’re a little buzzed? Not only is the surprise itself a fun thing, but there’s also the fact that someone went to the trouble to arrange to surprise you, which is also lovely and thoughtful.

“What kind of surprise?” I thread my fingers together in a fist I press to my chest. “Is it a kitten?”

He grins. “No, it’s not a kitten. Wanda’s still adjusting to not being ruler of the roost. I don’t think she’s ready for a kitten.”

I wrinkle my nose. “Good point. And as one of the under-employed, I can’t commit to being a cat mom right now. Because kittens become cats, Tanner. Cats who want to eat all the food and get taken to the vet. That’s a fact.”

“They do,” he agrees. “But there might be cat mom level employment in your future before you know it. I got a lead on a job you would be perfect for today. I thought we could go check out one of the company locations tonight, and see if you think it might be a good fit.”

I sit up, blinking fast. As if that will do anything to banish my buzz. “Shit. I can’t meet anyone right now. My hair is a disaster, and I can’t be trusted not to say crazy things when I’m high.”

He frowns. “So you’re saying that killer mermaids aren’t real?”

“Of course they are,” I say seriously. “You would be dead right now if I hadn’t stayed on the beach and made out with your face to protect you. You basically owe me your life.”

“That’s why I’m trying to return the favor.” He scoots behind me, rearranging the pillows and then pulling me back against him. “And you won’t have to meet anyone tonight. Just come hang out, have dinner and a beer with me, and see if you like the vibe. If so, I can call my friend Jax and get you an interview next week. He’s looking to hire a PR person with a strong background in photography and graphic design.”

I relax against his chest, turning to look up into his stupidly handsome face. Why does he have to be so pretty to look at? It would be so much easier to not fall on his penis if he had nose warts, or at least some mild eczema or something.

“What do you think?” he continues, brushing my humidity-frizzed hair from my face. “You up for some dinner and beer?”

“That sounds like a date,” I say, eyes narrowing.

He strokes my hair again, petting me while making a soft shushing sound. “It’s okay. Relax your squirrely brain. We can eat together in a public place without putting labels on things, I promise.”

I scrunch my nose and purse my lips, determined not to smile or otherwise encourage this easy, flirty thing he’s trying to pull. “This is sex, Tanner. Magical unicorn-penis sex, and that’s it.”

His dimples pop, and I laugh. I can’t help it.

“You look so proud of yourself.” I press a finger to his cheek.

“Well, it’s not every day a guy learns he’s got a magical unicorn penis.” His hands skim from my waist to cup my breasts through my T-shirt. “Does that mean I’m the chosen one? Do I have to go on a quest or something?”

I arch into his touch as his fingers tease my nipples, awakening the hunger that’s always simmering beneath the surface when we’re together—hot and ready to boil over at a moment’s notice. “Yes, a quest to my bedroom. Where I will remind you why we shouldn’t mess with a good thing.”

“Maybe I don’t want to wait that long,” he whispers as he begins to gather my skirt in one hand, drawing it slowly up my legs.

“We can’t have sex in this part of the backyard,” I hiss, even as I reach back for the close of his shorts. “What about Mr. Pickering the Pervert? We’re in clear view of his window.”

“I have a confession to make.” The hem of my skirt reaches my upper thighs, and I shiver, anticipating the moment Tanner realizes I’m not wearing underwear.

“What’s that?” I stroke his cock through his boxer briefs, loving how easy it is to get him hard.

“There is no Mr. Pickering. The people who live next door are the Yergers, and they go to Maine every summer. No one’s going to see a thing that happens in this backyard.”

My jaw drops. “You dirty liar!”

I turn to give him a piece of my mind for creating an imaginary pervert, but before I can tell him he’s the worst, he’s kissing me, his tongue stroking against mine, reminding me he’s actually the best.

Oh God, he’s the very, very best, which he proves by taking me from behind in the hammock—slow and hot and dizzy, sexy sweet, his fingers gliding over my clit until I come so hard I see stars, even though the sun won’t set for hours.

“You’re a goddamned American hero,” I sigh as we’re catching our breath after, with my skirt still bunched up at my waist and his cock going soft inside me.

“Why’s that?” He kisses my temple.

“We didn’t fall out of the hammock. And that was all you, friend, because I’m pretty sure I was doing nothing to help the balance situation.”

He hums, his lips still warm on my skin. “I’m not going to let you fall, Beach Pixie. You’re precious cargo to be handled with care.”

I don’t know if it’s the weed making me emotional or the fact that Tanner’s still inside me at this very second, making me very literally connected to him, but for a second I think I’m going to cry. I haven’t cried over boy stuff in so long—not even when Darby, my last steady hipster man-bun boyfriend, bailed while I was on a week-long spelunking photo shoot and I came home to find a Dear Jane note and every credit card I’d been stupid enough to leave in the cabin maxed out to buy camping equipment Darby needed to “find his Zen.”

I am accustomed to the men I date turning out to be emotionally unavailable losers or stealing from me or deciding it would be more fun to go home with someone other than the girl they took to the party.

I am not accustomed to this…sweetness.

“It’s just sex, Muscle Boy,” I whisper, but my throat is so tight he doesn’t hear me.

Or maybe he simply pretends not to hear, because a few minutes later, after we’ve both rearranged our clothes, he turns to me, leans in close, and says in a dead-serious voice, “If you don’t want people to like you, then you need to stop being so fucking adorable, okay, Daniels?”

I shake my head, but I can’t pull my gaze away from his. “You remember you hated me a week ago, right?”

“I never hated you. I was frustrated by your inability to see how nice I am or understand that my magical unicorn penis sought only to devote its life to giving you pleasure.”

I grin in spite of myself. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I didn’t ask to be the chosen one,” he says, solemnly.

I snort with laughter as I slide out of the hammock, wiggling my bare feet in the cool grass. “So how fancy is this eating and drinking beer place? Do I need to shower, or can I get away with slapping on some blush and changing into clothes that don’t smell like sex? Because I’ll be honest, I’m suddenly quite hungry, and my capacity for caring about being pretty is dwindling rapidly. I already care twenty percent less than I cared when I started this sentence.”

He loops an arm around my shoulders, keeping me close as we start toward the house. “You’re beautiful just like this. I like the fuzzy sex hair, but if you’re determined to change, jeans and a T-shirt will be fine. It’s a laid back, pricey microbrew and gourmet burger kind of joint.”

Before I can walk back my acceptance of this invitation—the balance in my bank account is way too low to be indulging in pricey anything—Tanner says, “My treat. I invited you, so I’m buying. I insist. No arguments. So hurry up and get changed. I’ll meet you at the car in five minutes.”

I hesitate—this is clearly a date, no ifs, ands, or buts about it—but then my stomach growls and I ignore the voice of reason, justifying the choice because a person can’t be expected to be reasonable while they’re practically starving to death.

And I haven’t eaten since breakfast, so…

I put worry to bed for the night and change into the yellow sundress Tanner likes, then I grab a light sweater, pausing in the bathroom long enough to pull my hair into a less messy bun and sweep on blush, mascara, and lip gloss without making eye contact with my reflection.

It’s easier to lie to yourself if you don’t make eye contact, and I don’t want to face the truth tonight. I want an evening with a gorgeous man who thinks I’m beautiful, a night to pretend I still believe there are a few princes left in a world full of jokers, liars, and thieves.