Thirty.

That's how many days it's been since the opera. Since the night I wrapped my arms around Connor and let him know that I didn't want to be anywhere else in the world. That I wanted to be safe in those big arms of his.

Thirty glorious and wonderful days that have made me the happiest woman on earth it seems like. I don't know how else to explain it other than the fact that I'm delirious with happiness every time I try to think of the various reasons that life is good.

Do you remember FRIENDS? You remember how Phoebe called Ross Rachel's lobster after that scene where she almost got stood up for senior prom?

Yeah, so I'm not sure I can call Connor my lobster yet, but let's just say that he's some form of crustacean right now. Like, maybe crab?

Okay, that doesn't sound good. Connor and I are not crabs.

Oh my God. No, I'd say right now we're progressing to lobster stage, but we haven't gotten there yet.

Ninety.

I'm serious when I say that's how many times in the last thirty days Connor and I have had sex.

Yeah, it averages to maybe about three times a day, but some days it's more and some days it's less.

What I'm not including are days where I'm like on my period and maybe I just go down on him. So a blowjob is not counted as sex in this instance, hun, because otherwise you would just shake your head at me and think that I went from sweet and cute and straight to nympho—that I didn't even pause at the slut stage.

And, yes. The sex is out of this world.

Like, life altering sex.

I swear I've blacked out too many times. I've seen stars. I've been in a sex haze.

A sex haze is absolutely real. You end up just sitting there for minutes, or sometimes even hours just zoned out because your brain is just firing too many pleasure synapses. Your neurons are literally tired. Your limbs feel like they're going to fall off. Your clit is raw. Your muscles inside are sore too, but it's a good sore.

Yeah, this is more sex than I've ever had in my life. And I couldn't be happier.

Three.

That’s how many bags of stuff I’ve brought over to Connor’s place.

Okay, his apartment at the Dakota is just so much nicer, okay?

Besides, it makes it a lot easier to not have to buy everything from Duane Reade every time I spend the night at Connor’s house.

Sure, it’s a big step. But so is the key he gave me to his place. We both joked that if we broke up, it would be pretty messy. Because I’d have to pack. And he’d have to help me move.

God, let’s hope it never comes to that, huh?

Two.

That's how many times Connor's face is close to mine and I almost tell him that I love him. Almost.

I don't yet. I need to be sure.

I can't tell him I love him and not mean it.

But more than anything else, I can't tell him I love him and have him treat me like every other girl that I've seen on YouTube.

I mean, this isn't a romance novel, you know, hun? Just telling a guy that you love him may not get rid of all his wild ways.

No, I need to be sure that he's changed or at least that he's willing to make a commitment before I do that.

Until then, I'm okay sharing my body. But I just can't get to that point where I can share my heart.

Six.

That's how many days ago I swear Connor was about to tell me that he loves me.

Why is this so important to me?

It's just three little words. They don't even mean anything to most people.

But to someone like Connor D'Avington, who prides himself on telling the truth and being upfront, it means a good deal.

Connor has always gone through life telling women that he's only there for the fun. He tells them he's never going to love them and they can hop on board, literally, and enjoy the ride. They totally do, but after that, when he's ready to move on they usually get upset.

Well, Connor never told me to hop on board. But he hasn't said anything else either.

It's like he doesn't know what we're doing.

Like the blind leading the blind.

Ten.

That's how many hours a day the D'Avington account is taking up of my life at work.

I swear to you that sometimes when I sit down and look at just the insane levels of shit we have to clean up from Connor's life, I wonder how I could ever be attracted to someone like him. I mean, I've always gone for the solid, sophisticated and silent types.

At Harvard, they were usually members of the Porc.

See, that's what I mean? The Porc actually stands for the Porcelain.

I'm not some snob, I swear. But that's just the kind of guys I used to date.

But maybe that's why I used to be so bored with men. Because after trading the effete Ivy League legacy for a real bad boy royal, I don't think I'll ever be able to think of another man again.

Zero.

I swear that's how many men I've thought of in my head since Connor and I have been going out.

I mean, I'm not even fantasizing about any other guy.

It's like no other man exists in my life.

I almost want to say that Connor D'Avington has ruined me for other men.

It's true. I mean, how am I supposed to really think of other men and fantasize about them when he's fucking me three times a day? Ninety times in thirty days, remember? Not including blowjobs.

And to be quite honest, I couldn't care less that I haven't thought of another guy since Connor came in.

I mean, I look at guys nowadays as almost a guy does, like beings that take up space that I interact with. Do I look at them and wonder if I want to have sex with them? I honestly never get to that point.

Because before I can have even a single sexual thought about them, thoughts of Connor push everything aside.

I may be thinking about him a little bit too much.

But for now, I'm happy to go with it and see what happens.