Her transformation was complete.
She’d never thought much about her apple cheeks and blue eyes before she’d moved to New York, but once there, her look had drawn attention. Men had called her Heidi on the street, as if she were fresh off the mountains of Switzerland. They’d called her “baby doll,” yelling out that they’d love to dirty her up a little. Her stupid round cheeks had flamed with mortification every time, which made the men howl with laughter and get even filthier. Catcalling was not something she’d grown up with in Wyoming, and it had taken months for her to school her response.
But she’d done it. Walk taller, tune them out, don’t look at them, don’t respond. She’d learned to put on heavier makeup, a mask to hide behind, along with high heels and a long black jacket anytime it was less than eighty degrees outside. Stare straight ahead. Look impervious.
It had worked moderately well with the catcallers, and the rest of New York, as well. Don’t let them see the real you.
Don’t let them see the real you... Wasn’t that what she was doing in Jackson, too? Hiding behind this costume she’d assembled in the big city?
If she wrote in to her own column, the answer would be easy. If you feel like you’re faking your way through life, then stop faking it. Let people see the real you. Take a chance. If you don’t open yourself up to others, then they won’t be open to you.
It wasn’t even complicated. It wasn’t something she needed to research. But it was still scary as hell. Letting people see the real you.
Veronica stared at the big-city version of herself in the mirror. The smoky-gray shadow made her eyes even bluer. The blush gave her cheekbones. The lip stain made her lips fuller. But she could tone it all down. Be the natural girl she’d been when she’d flown to New York all those years ago. Let people see her.
No.
She picked up her mascara and added another coat, then packed her makeup into its bag and put it away. “Not tonight,” she murmured to herself before she snapped off the light. But before she walked out of the apartment, she found a black marker and wrote a big note and stuck it on the fridge.
#1—Let people see the real you.
She’d start taking her own advice. Tomorrow, maybe. But definitely when she wasn’t standing in front of the whole damn town.
VERONICA CHANDLER WAS shining again when she took her place in front of the microphone. The wide smile made her eyes sparkle. Her earrings glittered as she waved to the crowd. “Good Lord, there are a lot of you tonight!”
The place erupted in cheers. Gabe didn’t cheer, but he did clap for Veronica before picking up a beer to wet his suddenly dry mouth. Maybe it was because he was already buzzed or maybe it was because he hadn’t seen her cool, bitchy side right beforehand, but she looked hot tonight. Her legs were bare all the way from ankle to midthigh, and his eyes followed the path up and down several times. Those legs made her look like his kind of girl.
He cleared his throat at the strange thought, but when he tried to look away, his gaze swung right back to those bare legs. They weren’t thin and impossibly long like the legs of some of the fashion models his sister hung out with. Veronica’s legs were tight. Hard. As if she used them to go places and do things. Her calf muscles were cut and the fronts of her thighs tightened when she shifted.
“How have I not seen her before?” Benton asked.
Gabe forced his eyes off her legs and looked at Benton. “She was living in New York for a while.”
“You know her?”
“I met her last week. She’s friends with Lauren at the library.”
“Maybe I should be spending more time at the library.”
“Because bartenders don’t get enough female attention? Please.”
Benton grinned and raised his beer. “Cheers to that.”
Veronica spoke again, drawing their attention. “This first question is R rated. Do you guys think you’re ready for that, or should we ease in with something tamer?”
When the crowd reacted, Veronica covered her mouth and shook her head, her cheeks going pink. “I actually didn’t mean it to sound that way, but I’d say you’re definitely ready.”
“Hell, yeah!” a girl shouted from the left.
“All right,” Veronica said. “This one’s short and not so sweet. ‘My boyfriend won’t go down on me—’”
The place erupted in groans and boos and Gabe found himself laughing until his eyes watered.
Benton booed right along with the crowd. “What a punk ass,” he muttered. Gabe clinked his glass in agreement.
Veronica’s laugh echoed over it all. “Okay. Just listen. ‘My boyfriend won’t go down on me. He says he’s never liked it with anyone, but I can’t help but take it personally. What should I do?’ Signed, I Need Love. Well, I hope your boyfriend is here to listen to this! But, letter writer, it doesn’t really matter if he’s here or not. Because what you need to hear is how many of these guys think he’s a fool. Right, guys?” The place exploded with noise.
Once the cheers died down, she started again. “There are lots of men who genuinely don’t like going down, and there are also lots of women who don’t like performing oral sex. These are not bad people—”
“Are you sure?” someone shouted.
“—and I don’t think anyone should be talked into anything they don’t want to do. I have no idea what your boyfriend’s problem is, and it doesn’t truly matter. If you have to talk him into it, I doubt he’d be very good at it and I doubt you’d have a great time.”
Somebody muttered an “Amen.”
“So, letter writer,” she continued, “the truth is that your boyfriend doesn’t really matter here. You matter. And what you need to ask yourself is ‘Do I want to go my whole life without oral sex?’ Because that’s what we’re talking about if this relationship continues. Since oral sex is the way the vast majority of women orgasm, I’m going to guess the answer to that question is no.”
Gabe noticed her cheeks going pink again.
“So if you don’t want to go your whole life without it, what’s the point of going a year without it? Or five years? Maybe he’s a really great guy, but he can be a great guy with someone he’s sexually compatible with. Believe it or not, there are women out there who don’t want that. They think it’s gross or it makes them uncomfortable. I once even met a woman whose nerves were so sensitive that she found it too intense and didn’t like it. Let him date that woman. Or better yet, he can hook up with one of those girls who hates blow jobs and they can live resentfully together for the rest of their lives.”
Veronica smiled. “But you, letter writer, you can look around at this very large gathering of men who love to go down—” she swept a hand over the crowd, and several guys jumped to their feet with triumphant fists in the air “—and you can decide to choose another path. A path that involves cunnilingus, and lots of it. My hunch is that’s the path for you.”
Gabe thought of the Robert Frost poem about two roads diverging in a wood and shook his head in wonder. Probably not what Frost had had in mind, but who really knew?
Her next question was from a woman who’d received hateful messages online telling her she was fat and slutty and who’d then tracked down the IP address to her sister’s computer.