Chapter 3

If you’re thinking my lack of dating experience is because I’ve been pining for Jacob for nine years, then you’d be wrong.

I had enough self-respect not to keep pining for a guy who’d stood me up for prom. I might have pined for the idea of him, if you want to get existential about it. But did I cry into my pillow every night, wishing Jacob would show up at my dumpy apartment at UW and tell me he loved me?

Hell no. The only thing I was crying about in college was the fact that my biology professor refused to grade our midterms on the curve.

But my dating experiences were always a mess, no matter who I dated. My first boyfriend, Todd, was in my biology class in college, and he wore glasses that had such thick lenses that when he looked at you, he was bug-eyed. It was hard to take Todd seriously when he looked like he had magnifying glasses stuck to his face. But when he asked me out for coffee, I said yes.

Todd proceeded to tell me all about his collection of Star Wars memorabilia, which would’ve been fine, if he hadn’t insinuated that he’d really like me to dress up as Princess Leia. And not in her standard white dress, but in that ridiculous metal bikini. I didn’t even finish my latte before I booked it out of there.

I went on a few dates with some other guys—Scott first, then Paul. Scott told me he worked in tech. He had a stable job, good family. He even owned his own home. Until I found out his name was not Scott, the only thing he owned was a tiny, hole-ridden houseboat on Lake Union, and that he really, really wanted me to join this great pyramid scheme with him.

Paul was the worst, though. I dated him for six months before I discovered that he was already married. With three children. We had been at our favorite Thai restaurant, and I’d just bitten into a spring roll, when a woman—who turned out to be his wife—stormed in, threw a glass of bubble tea into his face, and caused such a scene that the cops were called. Suffice to say Paul and I didn’t last beyond that little nugget of information getting out.

My friend Anna kept telling me that I chose these guys for a reason. “You subconsciously knew they were creeps and that you’d never have to commit to them,” she would always say. “How about you try dating someone you don’t meet on Tinder?”

I tried my hardest to vet the guys I dated. I really did. As the years had passed, I developed what I called my Honesty Policy. I tried to be as honest as I could, and I expected the same of other people. Should’ve been simple, right? Except honesty is apparently one of the hardest things ever for people.

Quite coincidentally, I actually had a date with a guy I hadn’t met on Tinder, but on Bumble, the same evening Jacob had come into my shop. His name was Marcus, and he and I had been messaging via Bumble for a few days before he finally asked me out for drinks. He’d told me he was a computer programmer, that he thought it was cool I ran a flower shop, and he hadn’t made any jokes about my full name being Dandelion. For me, that meant he was pretty much marriage material.

Marcus had chosen a brand-new bar in Belltown that was so dim I could hardly make out what he even looked like. He was tall, that I could tell. Dark hair, dark glasses. He was wearing either a blue or gray shirt. He pulled out my chair for me, so that was a plus.

“I always wanted to go to school for music, but my parents wouldn’t pay for my tuition if I did. So now I’m a computer programmer,” he said.

His voice was so bland that I couldn’t tell if he resented his parents, was grateful to them, or was simply apathetic. “Do you ever want to go back and get a degree in music?”

“Why would I? There’s no money in the arts.”

“Well, sometimes it’s not only about money.”

He snorted. “Only a woman would say that.”

The evening continued on in a similar fashion: he mansplained to me how to grow hydrangeas; he told me that he hadn’t initially wanted to message me back but that he’d been feeling lonely so he decided, what the hell?

I found myself thinking about Jacob as Marcus talked. I realized early in the evening that he wasn’t the kind of person to ask questions of other people, so I only needed to nod or say hmm a few times.

I couldn’t imagine Jacob treating a date like this. But then again, what had I to base that assumption on? I didn’t know him. He was still as charming as ever, still handsome and confident, but that didn’t mean he’d want to listen to his date talk about her job or her cat or her parents. Yet despite my best efforts, I kept going over our meeting, wondering if my mom was right in that he hadn’t wanted to see me at all but had wanted to scope out the store.

Maybe he wanted to see both you and the store? I thought, which was the dumbest thing ever. That wouldn’t exactly be a compliment.

After an hour, I couldn’t take listening to Marcus any longer. I’d rather go home and watch Chopped with my cat at this point.

“It’s getting late,” I lied. “I’m going to head out.”

Marcus paid for our drinks—at least he knew enough about dating to do that—and tried to kiss me as I got into my car. But he ended up kissing my jaw and then giving me those awkward first-date hugs where both parties were stiff and self-conscious. He told me he’d call me; I didn’t feel like reminding him that I hadn’t given him my number.

I’d forgotten all about Marcus by the time I arrived home. My brain was on two things: work tomorrow, and Jacob. Mostly Jacob, if I were being honest. I couldn’t stop obsessing over his motives. It shouldn’t matter; he wasn’t my problem. I didn’t even like him. I wasn’t a lovesick teenager anymore who was going to start writing Mrs. Dandelion West all over my notebook, surrounded by hearts.

I was an adult now who also had no intention of giving up my last name, because, to quote Gretchen Wieners from Mean Girls, “that’s just like the rules of feminism.”

I fell asleep watching an episode of Chopped where the contestants had to make a dessert out of an ostrich egg, bitter melon, salsa, and barley, which sounded terrible no matter what you ended up creating.

The night after I’d first seen Jacob, I dreamed about him, because my life was a walking cliché. It started out inauspiciously: Jacob coming into Buds and Blossoms and ordering a bouquet of poison ivy. Since this was a dream, my dream self shrugged and went to the back to get my basket of poison ivy—as you do.

“Dani,” said Jacob, his voice like melted chocolate wrapped in velvet and served up in a perfect gift box straight from Saks Fifth Avenue. “I’ve missed you.”

My dream self smiled seductively. “I know you did.” (Dream self was way more confident than my actual self.)

“I couldn’t stop thinking about you. Every day for the past nine years, I wanted you. You’re so fucking gorgeous. I’m hard just looking at you.”

The dream escalated rather quickly after that. Jacob pushed the poison ivy bouquet aside, the glass shattering on the floor, as he yanked me into his arms. I felt up his torso, which was now blessedly shirt-free thanks to the magic of dreams. He had dark blond chest hair that rubbed against my aching nipples (my shirt and bra had also disappeared, praise the lord).

Jacob lifted me onto the counter and ripped off my jeans and panties in one go, his blue eyes like the blue of a flame. When he kissed me, my entire body shuddered. Even though this was a dream, I could feel the scratch of his beard against my chin. I could taste him on my tongue, and I felt my pussy grow wet from that simple imaginary kiss. One of his hands cupped my breast, the other parting my thighs. I arched against him, begging for more.

He touched my aching clit with infinite slowness, and for some reason, he wouldn’t speed up. Apparently, even in a dream, I couldn’t get Jacob West to do what I wanted.

“I always wanted you,” he said.

“Even when we were kids?”

“Yeah.”

At this point, his cock burst through his jeans like something out of the Hulk, but my dream self took it in stride. His cock was huge. I gasped. “Oh no, it’ll never fit,” I said.

“It’ll fit, baby. It was made just for your pussy.”

He thrust inside me to the hilt. I could feel an orgasm building inside me as he pounded into my wet pussy. He felt so big that I was sure he was going to tear me apart. Somehow, he managed to keep rubbing my clit as he fucked me, and I felt that familiar tightening in my belly that signaled that I was close.

Something sharp dug into my side, breaking my concentration. I tried to brush it away, but then it started really hurting. I was about to tell Jacob to stop digging his claws into my ribs when I woke up and realized the only claws digging into my ribs were my cat’s.

“Goddammit,” I said with a groan, flipping over and making my cat, Kevin, jump off of me with an annoyed yowl. I pounded my fist against my pillow. “I was just getting to the good part!”

Of course, now I was horny and desperate, and with Jacob’s face in my mind, I strummed my clit until I came so hard my vision went a little black. I was gasping and sweaty, and so turned on that after letting my body come down for a few minutes, I was able to rub out another orgasm.

Damn. I had never been very good at getting myself to come more than once during masturbation. Apparently, Jacob brought out the big guns in that regard.

As I got out of bed and made breakfast, I wondered if I needed to get laid in general. Jacob had just awakened something inside me that could get relief through other means, or through another man. Hell, I could message Marcus, if I were really that desperate.

Except I didn’t want Marcus. Despite it being the worst idea ever in the history of forever, I wanted Jacob.

Too bad that was never going to happen.