Finding Sunshine (3 page)

“Great. I almost forgot to tell you—Becca has this new friend you should meet, man. I think you’d really hit it off, and she’s the sweetest little thing,” he says animatedly, smiling at me encouragingly. Richard has found his happily−ever−after, and is determined that everyone else should as well.

“We’ll see,” I say again, noncommittally.

“At least come and hang out. You haven’t been out in ages,” he encourages.

“Fine. I can do that, but you’re paying my cover charge,” I reply, and his laughter tells me that I won’t have to break the bank just to attend the auction.

Not that I blame him, but I really don’t want him trying to set me up. Even if I know it’s done out of the goodness of that fucking romantic heart of his.

It’s why he started the Valentine’s Day Date auction—as a chance for singles to meet and raise money for charity. Maybe I should go to that auction on Thursday night. Who knows, I might just find a woman I’m interested in. It’s for a good cause, after all.

Food, drinks and women.

Really, what more could a single guy ask for on Valentine’s Day?

~ Nina ~

“
Please
,” I groan, pulsing with need. I reach down and grip the soft, thick hair on the head that’s eliciting such pleasure between my legs.

I hear a familiar growl, and my sex flutters with need as I feel the gentle scrape of a man’s five o’clock shadow against the delicate skin of my inner thigh.

The nameless, faceless man begins to slowly kiss and caress up my body until his blue eyes are shinning down at me in the darkness.

Mr. Starbucks!
I reach out to cup his face, and he grabs my wrists, extending them above my head. I feel the tingle of his domineering touch as he pins me to the bed, his hard body covering mine.

It's not fair
.

I groan as Lily Allen belts out her own sexual frustration, waking me up from my very
pleasant
dream. I reach over and turn off the alarm, tossing the phone back onto my bedside table in frustration.

Darn, I should’ve bought batteries for Mr. Satisfaction!

I lay there in bed as my breathing slowly returns to normal. I’m overheated, and aching with the need to orgasm.

Closing my eyes, I attempt to visualize the gorgeous man I haven’t been able to get out of my thoughts since we met Monday morning. I fill my mind with his penetrating gaze, his sexy growl, and the power of his natural dominance when he came to my rescue.

I try to recreate the last portion of my dream in my imagination—the warm weight of his body on top of mine, and the firm yet careful grasp of his fingers around my wrists.
He takes the hand that isn’t pinning me to the bed and brings it down my body.
I slip my hand down into my damp underwear, feeling my hot, wet flesh.
His fingers firmly run across my lower lips.
My finger finds my clit.
Mr. Starbucks rubs my nub with a perfect rhythm while he growls in my ear, “Are you going to come for me?”

“Yes!” I say aloud as I feel my body, which had already been on the brink, fall over into an unspectacular, fleeting orgasm. I can’t help but think it would’ve been so much better had Mr. Starbucks actually been here—
touching, dominating, pleasuring me.

Darn!

After several more minutes, I force myself out of bed and into the adjoining bathroom. I clean up, putting on a pair of fresh undies and finding my slipper socks. I’m not about to begin the process of getting ready to start my day yet; there’s no need to rush.

“Are we still having dinner tonight, or are you going out with Rebecca,
again
?” my roommate, Jordan, asks, sounding somewhat snippy as I enter the kitchen. She’s wearing a dull grey suit, ready to start her day as the personal assistant to some high-powered executive downtown.

Golly, I need caffeine!

“I thought you wanted sangria and tapas?” I ask, ignoring the jab about spending time with Becca. I walk further into the kitchen and begin making coffee.

“I do. I just didn’t know if you had other plans.”

“Why would I? We made these plans last week,” I point out, putting the kettle onto the stove to boil water for my French press.
I wish we had instant hot water like my parents do in their kitchen.

“Just checking,” she says, fluttering around the kitchen, making herself breakfast. “You’ve been spending a lot of time with her lately.”

What am I supposed to say to that?

Inwardly, I groan at her jealousy. Sometimes I wonder if Jordan’s a closet lesbian who’s secretly in love with me, because really, there’s no other explanation. I hate to break it to her, but women aren’t my thing. I’m sorry Katy Perry, but I kissed a girl and I
didn’t
like it. It’s not like she doesn’t have friends from work she spends time with, without me.

Jordan and I had lived on the same floor in our dorm in college, and had become friends. I have since found out that living down the hall from someone, and living in the same apartment together, are two entirely different things! When we both graduated and decided to stay in the area, she asked if I wanted to be roommates. Jordan couldn’t afford to live this close to downtown on her own and needed someone else to share the expenses with. I had already found a small studio apartment in a really nice building—one my parents had actually approved of—but I had thought living with my friend would be fun.

Golly, was I wrong!

It is worse than living at home with my parents. She’s always asking where I’m going and who I’m talking to.

At that moment, my phone chooses to begin dancing as it vibrates on the counter next to me, telling me that said friend in question, Becca, is calling.
Why would she call me this early?

“Who is that?” Jordan asks, giving my phone a nasty look.

“Hello?” I ignore my roommate’s inquiry. Sometimes I think she should’ve become a cop like her father. She’s got the scowl and interrogation techniques down pat.

“Happy hump day!” Becca says cheerily into my ear.

“Happy hump day to you, too.” I laugh. “Are you knocked up yet?”

“Not yet,” she laughs. “We’re working on it.”

“I bet you are,” I tease. Becca and her husband, Richard, have started trying to start a family, and I couldn’t be happier for them.

“That’s what tomorrow night is all about.” She says, the smile clear in her voice.

“I still can’t believe you’re going to participate,” I say, shaking my head—even though she can’t see me.

“It’s just a bit of role-playing. It’s going to be so much fun,” she says excitedly. “But I called to talk about
your
sex life, not mine. I’m in the office today helping Hubby with everything for tomorrow, and he wanted to make sure you’re still okay with participating.”

Early last summer, I met Becca at the exclusive downtown nightclub,
St. Andrew’s.
Several friends of mine from college were back in town, and we all went out one night, Jordan included. While we were there, I danced, drank, and had a great time, until my clumsiness got the better of me. I may have had one too many of that evening’s specialty drink, the Irish Coffee Drop, but I blame the high heels my friends talked me into wearing for a spectacular fall onto my posterior
.

Becca was one of the only people who came over to help me up. My friends were completely clueless as I struggled to get back on my feet. We ended up sitting and talking in one of the club’s lounge areas while I double fisted water and coffee. She works from home as a call center operator and makes her own hours, which allows her time to socialize at the club regularly. Becca’s husband, Richard, is the club’s manager, and she usually goes there to visit him on the nights he’s working.

Recently, since I don’t have a job to get to the next day, I’ve been going out to keep her company on Thursday nights. We often dance for a while and then sit up in the old choir loft and just hang out. I’ve tried to include Jordan as much as possible when Becca and I spend time together, but she always seems to turn it into such a drama.

“Yes. One date won’t kill me. Hopefully,” I answer, telling Becca I’m willing to participate in tomorrow night’s Valentine’s Day Date auction.

“Good. Our friend, Aaron, has promised to come, and I think you’d hit it off,” she states cheerily. I groan in annoyance.

“Becca,” I warn. In the last few months, she’s been trying to fix me up with every single guy she knows.

“Trust me. I’ve known him for years, and he’s a total sweetie.”

“Trust you?” I scoff, laughing.

Ignoring my comment, she continues, “Even if he doesn’t get the date with you tomorrow, you could at least meet him and maybe exchange numbers for later.”

“We’ll see.”

“Good. Text you later,” she says undeterred.

We end our call, and I go back to making my coffee. The water has boiled in the meantime. After I pour it over the coffee grounds in the press, I wait.

“Isn't it weird spending time with people who are married?” Jordan asks from her stool at the counter were she’s eating.

“Why would it be?” I snap. “It doesn't stop them from being fun, or us having things in common.”

Goddess, I haven’t had my coffee yet!

All I want to do is crawl back into bed and continue dreaming about Mr. Starbucks. I'm horrible at guessing people’s ages, but the man was at least legal, and was clearly not geriatric. Although, his deep blue eyes and unruly, wavy brown hair that I just wanted to run my fingers through should be made illegal. He had the aura of an alpha male, and I imagine he is dominant in the sexiest way. The man’s very presence made my insides burn and melt.

“It’s just weird,” Jordan mutters into her teacup. I ignore her.

After quickly making myself some toast and finishing my coffee, I head into the living area. I flop down onto the sofa and begin the process of waking up. I make a mental list of all the things I
should
do today. Only the
goddess
knows if they'll actually get done.

Shower, dress, more coffee, check online for new job postings, apply to said job postings, and wonder why I ever thought I could turn my passion for photography into a viable career.

Despite my delusions of grandeur, I know I’ll never really be an Ansel Adams, Dorothea Lange, or Annie Leibovitz. I’ll never have their mastery of light, composition, or their eyes for capturing moments in time. Personally, I prefer more intimate portraits of nature, rather than the sweeping vistas like the majority of Ansel Adams’ work. I’m constantly trying to capture the minutia of life—the seashell laying on the beach, a bud mid-bloom, or a pigeon sunning himself.

I’ve been struggling to find my path and figure out how to succeed in my chosen field. While I’ve been searching for an entry-level position at a photographer’s studio or a gallery, I’ve been selling prints of some of my photos online. I haven’t made much money doing it so far, but at least I’m keeping busy doing something I love.

Several hours later, after Jordan has left for work, I find myself sitting on the sofa with my laptop where I’m supposed to be tweaking my resume,
yet again
. Somehow I had gotten lost along the way, and ended up looking at cute animal pictures. Honestly, I could look at baby animals all day long.
What is it about babies? Even the ugliest animals are cute when they’re young.

Ding!

The sound alerts me to an incoming email, breaking me out of my puppy and kitty induced daze. I switch over to my email application and smile. My dad has sent me a short email, with the link to an article that lists this year’s top digital cameras, according to some consumer group.

Subject: This Year’s Best Digital Cameras

Love,

Do you need a new camera?

Mom wants to know if you’re coming home this weekend, call her.

Be safe. Call if you need anything.

Love,

Dad

To say he’s supportive of my chosen career is an understatement. He’s always sending me photography-related news, whether it’s job listings, gallery openings, or the latest cameras coming on the market. He’s also financing me living here in the city while I search for a job. He’s the best dad—
step-dad
—a girl could ask for. The goddess blessed us the afternoon Mom and I found him on Boston Commons.

I laugh as I reply to his message. When he said that Mom wanted to know if I was coming home, it is really that he wants to know, and just doesn’t want to admit it.

Subject: Re: This Year’s Best Digital Cameras

Dad,

Thanks for the link. The camera I have is great, can’t wait to show you some new photos this weekend when I come home.

Love,

Nina xxx

I go back to trolling the Internet for job postings, and then spend time updating my online portfolio with some of the photographs I’d taken Monday morning.
Golly! I wish I’d been able to capture Mr. Starbucks.
My ringing phone interrupts my regretful thoughts.

“Honey, what time are you coming home on Saturday?” my mom asks in my ear. I get up from the sofa, stretch, and walk into the kitchen in search of something edible.

“In the morning. I’ll be home by lunch,” I say, digging around inside the fridge and grabbing a strawberry yogurt. I quickly check the expiration date before tearing off the lid.

“Good. Just don’t leave too late. I don’t want you hitting traffic going over the bridge.”

“Mom, it’s not tourist season. I think I’ll be fine.”

“All right, but try and make it for dinner. Dad thought we could go to that Mexican place you love,” she says.

“That sounds good, Mom. But don’t worry, I’ll be home for lunch,” I say exasperatedly, finally finding a clean spoon in the drawer and taking a bite of my yogurt.

“Okay, but just call if you’re going to be late,” she continues. I struggle to suppress the groan that’s at the back of my throat.

“I will, Mom. Love you.”

“Love you too, Pumpkin.” She replies, hanging up.