Mister Romance by Amelia Simone (the reading list .txt) 📕

She didn’t need to know that “research” was in air quotes.

Tamra: Wow. Thanks for warning a girl. The research options are ... nearly endless. Is there anything you wouldn’t do?

My grin turned wicked as I read her response. I deleted the message I’d been composing listing all the things I wouldn’t do. It was too early for her to know that I was adamantly opposed to flavored lube and condoms. I scratched at my neck and winced. The resulting body-wide rash and swelling afterward wasn’t seductive. She also didn’t need to know that Jimmy had convinced me that dripping hot wax as foreplay was less sexy if my clumsiness got the fire department involved. It wasn’t exactly the banter I was going for.

Chase: You’ll have to wait and see. Speaking of waiting to see ... yes to the shopping trip? We could head to the mall before we make dinner. Then I’ll know what to coordinate with for the wedding.

Tamra: Sure.

We made the last few logistics arrangements, and I spent most of the day not writing. Instead, I obsessed over my recipe books and cruised a few food blogs, searching for the perfect meal for us to make together. I was tempted to wow her. Move past friendship and have her see me as a man, standing in front of a woman, trying not to screw things up. Time I spent talking about cooking was time I didn’t spend inappropriately inserting breasts into the conversation. For some reason, my male friends didn’t mind it, but women were less excited to discuss them.

Early on in my career, I’d been in the middle of writing a scene with extensive foreplay before meeting a woman for dinner. Conversation turned to what I was working on, and while I hadn’t admitted to writing a sex scene, I’d told her I was editing one. Mistake the first. She thought that was fascinating and went on to ask more questions about my work and the types of authors I worked with. That led to mistake the second. In my head it was fine to ask her how she liked her breasts to be stroked or sucked as a matter of research in the context of me trying to decide how to give the author guidance to improve the scene. At the dinner table. During our first date. Some women might have been okay with it, but I was not good at reading the signals.

I suddenly realized how inappropriate my focus had been when my date got to her feet, shoved her cleavage in my face, and told me, “If you’re that interested in my breasts, you should be dating them, not me.”

Then she walked away. I had been at a loss for words. Which, if my silence had happened earlier in the evening, might have salvaged the situation. I felt like a dick.

What had been a playful conversation about editing a sexy scene took an uncomfortable turn quickly. I didn’t have the charm to pull that off in a way that didn’t sound sleazy. To her, it probably sounded like I was interested in her breasts in particular. In my head, I was collecting data about breasts in general. You know, for the good of humankind. Outside of my limited hands-on experience, most of my knowledge was the result of reading romance novels or watching porn. I felt a duty to make my writing stronger and more informative for the next generation of romance readers.

I tried to learn from that disastrous date. Now I had a no-go list for topics of conversation with women: breasts, orgasms, and really any body parts typically covered by swimsuits. I wasn’t a prude, but I struggled with phrasing things in a socially acceptable way. Also, I’d discovered that there was no socially acceptable way to introduce those topics on first dates. Unless you were naked. Then all bets were off. Sadly, I was rarely naked with a woman, and sometimes my preoccupied brain couldn’t help but blurt out the questions that I couldn’t let go of.

I finally found a recipe for butternut squash ravioli that sounded delicious and simple enough that Tamra might try it again without me if she liked it. After making my ingredient list, I put on my shoes. For the first time in months, I was willing to put on real clothes and go to the grocery store instead of waiting for a delivery. Hermit, party of one.

The grocery store I chose was a short walk from my apartment and my favorite for special ingredients. City Market was known for their high-quality produce and exotic ingredients. Also, for taking most of my paycheck anytime I walked through the doors.

I gazed longingly at the different deli items before searching for a well-shaped butternut squash. I shifted through a couple before finding one the right size. I snorted. The long, peach squash won the fleshy and phallic award for the produce aisle. I snapped a picture to send to Tamra before thinking better of it, busting my bathing suit rule. To be fair, we’d obliterated that rule in our first few conversations about nursing. Maybe it was a hazard of growing more comfortable with her, but I couldn’t resist sharing.

Chase: Something about this butternut is making me feel self-conscious ... about my butternut. LOL

Fresh sage and ricotta made it into my cart next. I couldn’t resist a long tour of the wine aisle and picked up a couple of bottles for us to choose from. If dinner sucked, we could drown our sorrows in wine.

I was checking out when my phone buzzed with a response from Tamra. I couldn’t resist taking a peek while I waited for my total.

Tamra: I’m suddenly feeling very ... hungry. I love a majestic butternut.

My bark of laughter startled the cashier.

“Sorry about that. Thanks,” I said as I took my receipt.

As I walked out with my bags of groceries, my face creased in a smile. Tamra got