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for you because you aren’t sure if you’ll be able to keep your hands off me while I’m sleeping right down the hall.
    His expression remained unreadable.
    Screw telepathy. Sarah snapped, “You could at least tell me that I’m welcome to stay here tonight.”
    “I said that earlier,” he said in a matter-of-fact tone. He opened the rear door of her SUV, pulled out her suitcases, and started walking to the house. When she didn’t follow, he stopped, half-turned, and gruffly said, “Come on.”
    Sarah fought the urge to stomp her foot in frustration. Oh yes, the fictitious you will be tormented with desire for me. She sighed and followed him onto the porch. When he stopped at the door and held it open with his back, allowing her to pass through, she narrowed her eyes at him and imagined how the retelling of this night would go when she met with her friends back home.
    Were you worried about staying at a stranger’s house your first night in Texas?
    Surprisingly, no.
    Not concerned that he might try to take advantage of you?
    Sarah gurgled on a laugh as she followed him up the staircase and down a narrow hallway. Are you kidding? I bet he locks his bedroom door tonight.
    Tony turned and frowned as if her amusement annoyed him. He opened the door to a small guest bedroom and placed her luggage beside the white wrought-iron twin bed that boasted a surprisingly delicate flowered quilt atop it.
    “You need anything?” he asked in a tone that implied he’d prefer if she didn’t.
    If you only knew.
    Or maybe you do and you’re not interested.
    She blushed. “All set.” He was stepping out the door when she spontaneously said, “Tony . . .”
    With a hand on the doorknob, he turned and raised one eyebrow in question.
    Stay.
    Nothing in his expression indicated that he would be the slightest bit tempted to, so instead she said, “Thank you.”
    He nodded and closed the door behind him.
    Sarah tossed her notebook on the oak nightstand beside the bed and flopped onto a mattress that felt as cold and unwelcoming as the man who had led her to it.
    Just because Texas wasn’t living up to her fantasy, the trip wasn’t a complete wash. I didn’t come here to meet a man. Honestly, I didn’t really come to see Lucy, either. I came to find my story.
    She rolled onto her stomach and reached for her notebook. Pen met paper with an enthusiasm she’d feared she’d never experience. First she recorded what she didn’t want to forget about the trip, then she tried to capture as much as possible of the story she’d been outlining in her head all day. Two hours later, she flipped back to the first page, reread everything she’d written and wrote her painful realizations at the end: I’ll need more than my personal experience if this book is going to have sex scenes.
    Is that really how it was? No wonder we broke up. Why did it take me this long to realize how bad it was?
    Twenty-five and I’ve never orgasmed.
    What is my problem?
    Maybe I was born with a hyperactive imagination but subpar bits and pieces.
    Looking around the room and feeling a bit guilty, Sarah stepped out of her shoes, pants, and underwear, then slid beneath the flowered quilt. She ran her hand down her stomach and over her short pubic hair.
    Everyone does it.
    Some even suggest it as a way to improve your sex life. If you know what pleases you, then you can guide your partner and all that crap.
    She had to admit that it felt good to touch herself. She rubbed back and forth a few times, stopping occasionally when she was convinced she heard a sound at the door. She rubbed harder. She rubbed faster. She flipped onto her stomach and rubbed herself against her hand.
    Ow, hand cramp. Great. She gave up with a pathetic sigh of resignation and buried her face in her pillow in disgust. Oh God, I have problems.
    Rolling onto her side, she reached for her notebook again and wrote a sarcastic note in the margin: First attempt at masturbation—fail. Change book title