When the speaker on the traitorous piece of plastic remained silent, she continued.
“Okay. So, we’ve never really had great boundaries. Maybe we should set some now. My dating life isn’t a topic I wish to discuss. Not with you. Not with anyone.”
“You write romance novels. You have to actually experience some romance in your life in order to describe it in a realistic manner for your readers.”
She shook her head as she paced the soft carpet of her living room. “No. See? That’s the beauty of it. I’m a romance writer, I don’t need to date. If I start to feel like I’m missing out, I can write myself a date.”
She heard his chuckle. “Emily—”
“Okay, okay. Even better, you date—” she paused as she warmed to the idea—“and then tell me all about it. I can live vicariously through you.”
Another long pause. “Emily,” when he finally spoke, his voice sounded slightly off from his usual deep bass, “vicarious sex is a bad thing.”
All She Wants For Christmas