“Can I call you ‘my QT,’ Franny?” Hayes asked as he licked my nipple ever so gently, pulling his teeth across my breast in a way that caused every hair on my body to startle.

“As long as if, after that, you promise to never, ever say that word again,” I said, before letting out a moan.

“I promise,” he said, moving his mouth to my other breast, his tongue hot on my skin, leaving my body cold and wanting the second it left. “Do you promise?”

“Yes.” I would promise him just about anything if it meant he would never, ever stop.

*  *  *

Franny: What would you guys do if I told you I just had three orgasms.

Cleo: With an actual person or w your vibrator?

Franny: Not just with an actual person. With HAYES.

Cleo: STFU

Franny:

Lola: omgomg I KNEW THIS WAS GOING TO HAPPEN

Franny: Yes how convenient you all couldn’t make it to dinner last night. Nice plan.

Lola: BUT IT WORKED

Franny: Don’t tell Perrine!

Cleo: Can I tell the guy from Bumble who I’m about to meet for coffee?

Franny: I hate u both.

Lola: Go ice your vagina, Fran!

Lola: Cleo, report back.

Cleo: I’ll let you know if he looks like someone who can go 4 three orgasms

Franny:

Franny:

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Four

Hayes

When I opened my eyes again, I was alone in Franny’s bed. Her room was dark, the rain still pounding outside. I sat up, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. The clock on her bedside table read 6:03 p.m.

I peered over the edge of the bed, but my clothes were nowhere to be found. There was, however, a folded shirt and pair of pants perched precariously on the bedside table next to me with a Post-it on top. “Drying your clothes. Put me on,” it read.

I was just yanking the T-shirt over my head when I heard the wood floors creak. “Hey.” It was Franny. Still wet, but this time from the shower. She was wrapped in a cream-colored towel, her hair in ringlets around her face.

“Hey,” I said. “Thank you for the clothes.”

“I thought you’d look good in my high school boyfriend’s Dave Matthews Band shirt and my biggest pair of flannel pants.” She winked, shuffling by me to her dresser. “I hope it’s okay that I put your stuff in the dryer. I read the tags—it’s all machine-washable.”

“Of course,” I said, watching from the bed as she slipped on a pair of gray sweats and a striped long-sleeved shirt.

The whistle of a teakettle piped up from the kitchen. “Be right back.”