Best Laid Plans

“That is a seriously dumb statue. Want to topple it later?” she asks as she yanks her auburn hair into a tighter ponytail.

“Yes, let’s deface public property. That’ll help me get over my complete deer-in-the-headlights moment.” I sigh and look at my good friend. “It gets better, right?”

She pats my shoulder. “I want to be totally sympathetic and tell you it’s cool, no worries. But it’s not going to get better unless you take a leap and get back in the game. That guy did a number on you.”

I picture David’s cutting words as he dropped me. “I know. And did I tell you that David is now engaged to the woman he started seeing after me? I can’t even hate him for being a cad. He just didn’t want me. He wanted her. They came into the store a week ago, and she was wearing a big fat ring.”

Perri gives me a green-eyed sideways glance. “Sweetie, I’m not talking about David.”

I stop at the edge of the square, furrowing my brow. “Who are you talking about, then?”

“Phillipe.”

“Phillipe?”

She makes a rolling gesture with her hands. “Phillipe. French guy you dated for four years when he was living here. The sexy winemaker.”

“I know who Phillipe is. I’m just not understanding the comparison.”

“One-position Phillipe. He loved missionary more than anything in the world. Except his grapes.”

I laugh. “Well, yeah. He was absolutement in love with his grapes.”

“More important, Phillipe is kind of all you knew when it came to men. So when David said you were too sweet, it’s only because you don’t know if you like spicy.”

We turn the corner, and I arch a brow. “That’s the reason I froze in my store? Because I don’t know if I like spicy sex?”

She nods. “Phillipe was pure vanilla.”

For four years, Phillipe and I dated. He was wonderful—sweet and kind and a massive fan of being on top. In his defense, he was quite skilled at missionary, and we enjoyed the hell out of our horizontal time together. He reached all the spots he was supposed to reach including those starting with a G. But we never really ventured beyond that comfort zone, and the few times I asked, he never cared to mix it up.

I missed him only a little bit when he returned to Europe a few years ago to take over his family’s vineyard in the Provence region.

“Your theory is I simply don’t know what I might like in bed?” We wind our way toward our favorite bar.

“Exactly. Phillipe vastly preferred one way, and with David, you never had the chance to explore.”

Wow. How did I not realize it before? But her assessment is dead-on. Because of Phillipe I assumed most men liked sex the same way—on top, guy in charge, setting the pace. “I’ve only played it safe,” I say, a little sad.

“You’ve only played it safe because it’s all you’ve experienced. I’m not saying you have to take crazy risks. And there’s nothing wrong with vanilla . . . unless you want chocolate or strawberry. Do you even know if you want chocolate or strawberry?”

I picture the artisan ice cream shop down the street. “Honestly, I kind of like that birthday cake with blueberry flavor at Salt and Straw.”

Perri holds up her hands. “My point exactly. Have you ever had birthday cake with blueberry flavor in bed?”

I blink. “What would that even be?”

“Not missionary, that’s all I know.”

I laugh. “That’s for sure. I tried to get Phillipe to mix it up. One time, I thought I would go all sexy on him. I took the initiative and dressed in come-hither lingerie—a white demi-cup bra and high-cut panties, and I climbed on top of him in bed when he was reading.”

“And what did the missionary man do?”

I snort at the memory. “He said something sexy in French, and I was sure I was finally going to learn what it was like to be thrown down on the bed, to be yanked up on all fours. Hell, to have my ass smacked, and my hair pulled, and my panties ripped off.”

“Uh. Yeah.”

I shake my head as I recall what went down. “Instead, he tossed his book to the side, slid me underneath him, and made love to me, whispering sweet nothings in French the whole time.”

“Boring. But the French dirty talk is a nice touch, so we can’t dock him all the points.”

“True. He deserves a minor commendation for his ability to say swoony things, like je te veux tellement. But being taken would have been better, right?”

“Mais oui.” Perri laughs. “I can absolutely confirm that being taken is often better than being talked to. Give me a strong, silent, tatted-up man on a motorcycle who throws me down on the couch, and all he has to do is grunt, Fuck. Now.”

“A caveman is all you require?”

She shrugs in a way that conveys her answer. “Pretty much.”

I pat her shoulder. “I’ll be on the lookout for you.”

“And what about you? What do you want?”

I let her question marinate, trying to figure out what I’m missing. “I don’t need to be Christian Grey’s plaything, and I don’t want to be tied up in the Red Room. But that’s what stung about David’s parting words. He never gave me the chance.” I flash back to that day at Silver Phoenix Lake, but further too, back to all the days with him. “Though, honestly, I never took the chance either. I never asked for anything else. And I honestly wouldn’t mind finding out if other positions are how they make them out to be in books.”

“I bet Mr. Businessman would have helped you find out.”

I sigh. “Now I’ll never know what Mr. Businessman really wants, or if he likes birthday cake sex.”

She nudges me. “Also, seriously. How did you miss the signs? The dude bought Hidden Figures and The Nightingale and asked your opinion on them, and you didn’t realize he was asking you out?”

I offer up a lame, “He might have been buying them for a girlfriend.”

“And tonight you learned he was buying them as conversational lubricant to talk to you.”

We reach our favorite bar and head inside, where I order a white wine and she asks for a beer.

She taps the bar. “I think it’s time to find out if you have a little Ana in you.”