Can't Touch This (Can't Touch This #1)

Goosebumps tickled my spine as I hugged my box of soon-to-be used condoms. “You’ll find someone. And besides, who knows if this will last with Mr. Wonder Dog Saviour. For all you know, he might be goblin in the sack and I’ll come back to work tomorrow sorely disappointed.”

Polly wound her chestnut hair into a bun and resumed disinfecting the facilities. “Girl, you’ll be sore but not from disappointment. Have you seen the way that guy just stands? He does it oozing sex. There is no way he’s not going to rock your world.”

Throwing me a fresh towel to help, she added, “And I want to know every juicy detail because I’m shameless enough to live through my best friend's orgasms and spank-bank her memories for my own until I meet Mr. Polly Dartford.”

“You’re gross.” I giggled. “Doesn’t fantasising about me having sex mean you’re into me?” I held my chest. “All this time, Pols? I never guessed. Are you secretly in love with me?” I sidled up next to her feeling more carefree than I had in decades. “Do you need a kiss to make it all better?” I puckered up.

She stuck out her tongue, shoving me away. “I replace you with me, duh. And no, I don’t want your charity kisses. I needz me a man.” She swatted me with the towel.

Our cleaning up duties quickly descended into stupidity, laughing the way only two best friends can.

* * *

By the time six p.m. rolled around and our last customer with their squawking parakeet left for the night, I was a walking zombie from lack of sleep and the extended hypersexual awareness of not coming for two days. I hadn’t been able to stop tormenting my libido with repeats of Ryder naked in my living room.

However, when I locked up the surgery and waved Polly off to meet her high-school friend for dinner, I had excited tummy-butterflies unfurling their wings.

The night sky still held lashings of a red and orange sunset as I pulled out my phone and dialled his number. We’d arranged to meet at seven again.

I couldn’t wait.

Tonight, I’m having sex.

Tonight, he’s all mine.

My fingers squeezed my phone tighter as it continued to ring, unanswered.

Voicemail clicked in.

He didn’t even have a personalised recording, just a robot telling me the number I’d called wasn’t available right now and to leave a message. Beep.

Beep to you, thank you very much.

Where was he and why hadn’t he warned me he would be busy tonight? Come to think of it, why hadn’t he texted or been in touch all day? I respected his attempt at giving me space (so I didn’t think he was smothering me), but I loved our text volleys.

I’d missed him since the moment I woke—even in my dreams he’d made a cameo with yet another dog he’d rescued.

Where are you, Ryder?

I hated how my mind diseased me with doubt. Had he had second thoughts about us? Had I done something wrong?

Feeling pissed off—mainly due to sexual frustration and partly due to his silence, I drove myself home, fed Visa, showered, and dressed in a fresh set of light denim jeans and peach button blouse and waited.

I’d give him the benefit of the doubt and not jump to conclusions.

I tried to be the girl who didn’t let anything bother her. I tried to push away stress and not fiddle with the pearl cuff of my blouse.

I waited.

And I waited.

And by waited I meant sat stiffly on my couch with my legs crossed and foot tapping angrily while punching my phone screen to see if by some miracle I’d missed his return call.

I even sent him a message.

A cool calm collected message asking if he was still up for tonight instead of demanding he get over here and put me out of my misery. I didn’t even tell him I had twelve brand new condoms that needed soiling.

But as my tummy growled and the clock slowly slid through seven p.m. and eight, I struggled to come to terms with the idea that all of this had been a joke to him.