The Lucky in Love Collection - Lauren Blakely Page 0,30

if you find that man, please share him,” Vanessa adds, but I flash back to last night and wonder if it’s a Greek god she wants or someone else—namely Perri’s brother.

“How exactly does your sex school start?”

“Last night we talked through things on my list, so that was essentially the first lesson.”

“What’s the next lesson?” Perri asks.

I tell them what Gabe and I have planned for this afternoon.

“We've done that with you before,” Vanessa points out.

“I know, but it will be interesting to go with a man and get the guy’s perspective.”

“I bet perspective’s not the only thing Gabe wants to give you,” Vanessa says in a low voice.

But she’s wrong. I’m not his type. That’s why I chose perfectly. This will be one week of learning, with no risk of crossing into the romance zone. We can safely stay friends and focus on my new sex-education syllabus.

And I’m as ready as I’ll ever be for lesson number two.

18

Gabe

It seemed like a good idea at the time.

But now?

Now I think I’m going to require a longer-than-usual run if I expect to survive sex toy shopping with Arden.

I hate shopping.

Wait, hate is too strong a word.

I don’t detest anything.

Except for drunk drivers, arsonists, and the designated hitter rule.

Also, littering and broccoli.

But those are all reasonable hates.

Shopping is more like something I strive to avoid the same way I aim to dodge day-old bagels, warm beer, and community pools.

But when you’re shopping for sex toys with a woman you want to screw, well, that requires a whole new approach.

That’s why I run this morning alongside my cousin. I meet up with Tom, who recently moved to the neighboring town with his new woman, Finley. Tom’s a brainiac and a roller-coaster designer, so I ask him to tell me about his new projects.

Listening to him talk about engineering feats of daring keeps me in the right zone.

The no-thinking-about-sex zone.

The conversation is solely on work, and it helps. After a few miles, he’s done. “I’ll catch you next time,” he says. “And I promise I’ll regale you with exciting details on how to make a ride go upside down.”

I give him a quick tip of the cap. “The regaling is on the calendar.”

I continue without him, because my mission requires extra.

Extra running.

Extra focus.

A lot of extra miles to get out of the sex-centric zone I’ve been living in. It’s a proven medical fact that men require at least a half dozen miles of hard running or several hours on the StairMaster before the constant thought of sex vacates the brain for even a few minutes.

Over the river and through the woods I go, putting distance between the swirl of dirty thoughts and my stark reality. I pass seven miles, then hit eight, adding a long workout at the gym with weights. As I lower the barbell on my final set, I’ve slipped into a blissful, blank mind-set.

There’s one more thing I need to seal the deal and live in this state a little longer.

Seeing my parents.

There is no bigger sex buzzkill than a visit with Mom and Dad, so I pop by for a little breakfast. My mom whips up some spectacular scrambled eggs with provolone cheese and mushrooms, and my father’s coffee ought to be worshipped by baristas the world over.

As I chew, Mom chats about how my sister, Kim, is doing with her third pregnancy, how big her belly is, and how awful she’s feeling trying to move.

Yup.

All the details of Kim waddling around are adding up to a blank sex slate upstairs, and I couldn’t be happier.

By the time I return home, tired from the run, stuffed from breakfast, and filled with images of my basketball-belly sister, I can’t escape the no-sex zone.

This is not an easy state for a man to achieve. We can only successfully reach this sexual tabula rasa, say, 1 percent of the day.

Wait. That’s far too generous.

More like 0.2 percent.

But when you’re there, you feel like you can master string theory and write a symphony.

I hum a few notes from Beethoven’s “Ode to Joy,” since that’s about the only classical music I know, and damn, that shit is good. Beethoven could write some badass melodies.

Since I’m all about expanding my mind for the precious few minutes that it’s uncluttered by sex thoughts, I decide I ought to try to learn quantum physics. I down a huge glass of water, grab my phone, and find a podcast on the topic. I sync my phone to my speaker