Make Me Forget

Chapter 3

Chapter Three

VADA

He kisses her softly, plucking his thumb along her lower lip, and when she releases a hungry, desperate moan, he slides his tongue in deeper. Helena arches her back, and Jordan wraps his arms around her waist, pressing her body tighter against his. She feels his growing erection against her flesh and can no longer resist the temptation to touch him. She’s been waiting years for this moment…

Writing s*x scenes is the hardest part of the writing process for me. Even though I usually have great feedback from my agent, it takes twice as long to write compared to other scenes. It doesn’t help that I haven’t been inspired due to my own pathetic love life.

Leaning back in my chair, I stretch my arms over my head and c***k my neck from side to side. I can only write for a few hours at a time before I need to get up and walk around. I’m usually alternating between writing and social media, but I vowed to take a social media break while I’m on my mini writing retreat.

Casanova had mentioned downtown Charleston and all the quaint shops that line the streets. Chicago is covered in shops and malls, but there’s just something about a new city that intrigues me. I close my laptop and decide a short break wouldn’t hurt. Hell, it might inspire me for the first time in weeks.

After showering and getting dressed, I stop by the main house to ask for suggestions on where I should go, but he’s not home. He must’ve left for work or something, so I schedule an Uber to take me downtown.

“Thank you,” I tell the driver after he drops me off on the corner of King and Meeting Streets by Marion Square Park. He suggested this area once I told him I wasn’t exactly sure where I wanted to go, and I’m happy to see he didn’t let me down. I can already tell it’s what I was needing.

“Enjoy yourself,” he tells me with a smile before I shut the door behind me.

Shops are lined up and down both sides of King Street. The sun is shining brightly above, people are chatting as they walk past, and a high energy is in the air.

Usually being around a lot of people gives me anxiety, but today I plan to embrace it. Chicago’s always crowded with tourists sight-seeing and locals walking to work, which is why I usually stay isolated in my shoebox apartment. But not here. I want to enjoy the fresh, warm air and all this city has to offer.

My first stop is a cute boutique with all kinds of handmade goodies. Jewelry and hair accessories, designer handbags, scarves, and sunglasses line the walls and storefront. I barely walk in ten feet before a woman approaches me.

“Well, hello there.” She greets me with a sweet, southern drawl. “How ya doing?”

“Fine, thank you.” I smile back. “Your shop is gorgeous.”

“Thank you.” She beams with pride. “It’s actually my mama’s, but my sister, Cherise and I do most of the customer service duties now that she’s inching toward retirement. Although she still does all the accountin’ and orderin’,” she tells me, but I don’t know why.

I smile and nod as I run my fingers through one of the scarves on display. “The fabric is so soft.”

“Oh, that’s because my Aunt Jeannie—she lives across Cooper River o’er there—washes all the fabric in baby oil before sewing the patterns together. Then she steams them, but only using distilled water, and once they dry, she sprays them with organic fabric softener. It’s a process, she says, but she enjoys it, so she keeps doin’ it.” She rambles fast, making it hard to process everything she’s saying.

Blinking, I bite my lip and nod. “Wow, that’s very cool.” Oversharing must be common around here because you definitely won’t get that in the Midwest.

Reading her nametag, I see her name is Cherry. Smiling, I walk around the shop as she continues telling me the backstory on every item I pick up. The pair of earrings her Aunt Mae designed, the sunglasses they found in Italy and can barely keep them in stock this time of year, the bracelet her Gram Gram redesigned from a bracelet her mama bought for her many years ago. With how much she talks, I could write an entire novel before I even get a chance to leave the store.

She asks my name and why I’m visiting. Once I tell her, she goes on and on about how she loved watching My Girl with her kids, who are named Christine and Caitlin, and then proceeds to tell me how she’s read every single Nicholas Sparks novel to date after I tell her I’m a writer who’s here on business.

By the time I make my way back to the front and checkout with a new scarf and pair of earrings—neither of which I really needed—I know all of Cherry’s pets’ names: Scruffy, Spinner, Spike, and Bella, as well as her thoughts on the annual Labor Day parade that’s coming up. Granted, I was a little put off at first by a stranger telling me so many personal details, but by the time I leave, I’ve actually enjoyed the company—as weird as it was.

I continue walking down the street, the sun beaming down on me, and decide to tie my hair up into a ponytail. Once I’ve managed to get the hair off my neck, I bend down to pick up my bags when I see the store sign across the street—Paris Pottery & Studio. Recognizing the name from the bottom of Casanova’s mugs, I walk there next.

I’m in complete awe as I walk inside and look around. Everything looks so clean and artistic. Lining a dark navy-blue accent wall are wooden shelves stocked with clay mugs, bowls, and plates. On the other wall is a display of mugs, similar to the ones in Casanova’s cupboard. I walk toward that side of the store before anyone can stop and tell me their life story.

A sign on display reads Original Paris Mug, and I pick one up and look at the bottom to see the same Paris logo.

“Those are South Carolina’s most popular mugs,” a female’s voice comes from behind. I spin around and see a young woman smiling at me. Her name tag reads, Hilary. “Made locally right here in Charleston.” She politely folds her hands in front of her and waits for me to speak.

“I borrowed one this morning actually,” I tell her. “I was hoping to find one for myself.”

“Sure, darling. Ethan has a large variety of mugs. I’m sure we can find one you’ll like.” She winks, reaching for one on the shelf. “No two are the same.”

“Ethan?”

“The potter. It all started with the Original Paris mug. At first, they were only available online, and it was more of a hobby than a career. He would do live videos of him throwing clay, and people just went crazy over it. Not to mention, he’s not bad to look at either.” She winks, and I’m starting to notice a pattern. “His videos and mugs started blowing up the internet, and soon he was selling out every week.”

“Wow, that’s amazing,” I say in complete admiration.

“Oh, that’s just the beginnin’, darling. An investor swooped in so he could make this a career and throw clay full-time. He continued making his mugs and customers wanted more. The demand was so high, he opened up this studio and hired interns to run it.”

“So you’re an intern?”

“Yep, from the art institution,” she proudly responds.

I smile and nod, appreciating the history behind the mugs and studio.

She starts talking about the process of each one, and it’s all fascinating and overwhelming at the same time. By the way, she talks about him, I imagine this Ethan guy to be early-thirties give or take, obviously good with his hands and gorgeous. If he’s anything like Casanova, probably an arrogant asshole, too.

“So do you see anything you like?” she asks me, and after taking another look, I pick out two of my favorite.

“Make sure to hand-wash only,” she reminds me as she hands me a cream-colored bag with the word Paris written in script on both sides. I love all the cute touches this shop has from the personal customer service, the easy shopping experience, and the modern look mixed with the southern decor gives it a rustic vibe.

“Will do,” I promise. “I can’t wait to bring these back to Chicago with me.”

“Enjoy, sweetheart.”

After thanking her again and grabbing my bag, I start to head out. Before I open the door, a plaque on the wall grabs my attention. A plaque with Casanova’s face on it.