Chapter 1: The Wine and Wisdom Session
Sunlight filtered through the massive oak tree in Tasha’s backyard, dappling the worn wood of the picnic table with shifting coins of gold. Cherry traced the condensation on her wine glass, the coolness a stark contrast to the humid Atlanta afternoon clinging to her skin. Jasmine, thick and sweet, hung heavy in the air, mingling with the damp earth smell after a morning shower. Somewhere nearby, a bee droned, industrious and oblivious. Peaceful. Almost too peaceful.
"Girl, if you sigh one more time like the world owes you rent money, I'm dumping this Pinot Grigio on your head. Expensive Pinot Grigio." Tasha leaned back in her chair, the plastic groaning beneath her. Her own glass was already half-empty.
Cherry snorted, swirling the pale liquid. "World does owe me something. Like, I dunno, five years of decent orgasms back?" She plucked a stray leaf off her bright orange maxi dress, the fabric swirling around her ample curves. Her dark locs, piled loosely on her head with tendrils escaping, felt heavy. "Feels like I traded my twenties for a membership to the 'Slightly Disappointed Wives Club'."
"Okay, first?" Tasha pointed a perfectly manicured finger. "Stop romanticizing that dry-ass marriage like it was some tragic opera. It was a desert. A Sahara of coochie neglect." She took a deliberate sip. "Second? That membership expired the minute the judge slammed that gavel. Welcome to the 'Abundance of Dick Club'. Membership perks include multiple orgasms and zero expectations about loading the dishwasher correctly."
Cherry choked on her wine, laughter bubbling up despite herself. "Abundance of Dick? Tash, that sounds like a terrible band name. Or a really sketchy buffet."
"It's truth," Tasha declared, leaning forward, her eyes gleaming. "Dick is literally falling out the trees, Cher. Falling! And you're sitting here under this actual tree," she gestured dramatically at the oak canopy, "looking like a whole snack in that fire dress, sighing over a man whose idea of foreplay was asking if you remembered to pay the water bill."
The accuracy stung, sharp and familiar. Cherry tucked a loc behind her ear, the familiar weight a small comfort. "It's not that simple. Re-entering the... market? Feels weird. Like everyone else got the manual and I was stuck reading the terms and conditions in ancient Sumerian."
"Market? Babe, please." Tasha waved a dismissive hand. "This ain’t Wall Street. This is pleasure island. Your ticket just got punched. Stop overthinking it. Just… sample the goods. See what you like." She lowered her voice conspiratorially, though they were alone except for the bees. "Speaking of goods… Devon."
Cherry’s head snapped up. "Devon? Our Devon? Devon from Jason’s graduation party? Devon who ate six of your mom’s deviled eggs and then fell asleep on the porch swing?" Devon was Tasha’s cousin’s best friend. Nice guy. Tall. Played bass in a semi-successful local jazz band. Had a calm energy Cherry always found… steady.
"The very one." Tasha’s grin was pure feline satisfaction. "He’s been asking about you. Subtly. Not so subtly."
"Asking what? 'How’s Cherry coping with her catastrophic life choices?'"
"More like," Tasha affected a deep, smooth voice, leaning in, "'How’s Cherry really doing, Tash? She looked incredible at the barbecue last month. That color she had on…'." She switched back to her own voice. "He notices you, Cher. Like, notices you. That quiet, intense way he has. It’s been months. Since before the ink was even dry on your divorce papers."
A flutter, unexpected and unwelcome, stirred low in Cherry’s belly. She pushed it down. Hard. "Okay, so he noticed my dress. Big deal. He’s polite."
"Polite?" Tasha barked a laugh. "Girl, when you walked past him to get more potato salad? His eyes followed you like a damn homing beacon. Practically burned a hole in that cute lil’ denim skirt you had on. Marcus saw it too. We had a whole debrief after." Marcus was Tasha’s perpetually amused husband.
Cherry took a long, slow drink of wine, the cool liquid doing little to douse the sudden warmth creeping up her neck. Devon. Solid, quiet Devon. With his watchful eyes and easy smile. The idea felt… enormous. Terrifying. Intriguing. "He’s just… nice. Probably feels sorry for me."
"Sorry?!" Tasha slammed her glass down, making the table jump. "Get that martyr complex outta here! He doesn’t feel sorry. He feels interested. He sees a fierce, fine-ass woman who got dealt a bad hand and is finally free. A woman with locs down to her perfectly sculpted ass—"
"Tasha!"
"—a woman who wears color like it’s her personal superpower, and has a mouth that could cut glass but a heart…" Tasha’s voice softened unexpectedly, "…that’s softer than she lets on. He sees you, Cherry. The whole, complicated, gorgeous package. And honey? He wants to unwrap it."
The directness, the sheer certainty in Tasha’s voice, left Cherry momentarily speechless. She stared at the shifting patterns of light on the table, the words echoing. He sees you. Did anyone, really, in her marriage? Or had she just been… furniture? Efficient, expected, unexamined furniture. The thought was a cold splash of water.
"I don’t know how to do this anymore, Tash," she admitted, the words scraping out softly. "The flirting. The signals. It feels like a language I forgot."
"You remember," Tasha said firmly. "It’s like riding a bike. Wobbly at first, maybe. But the body remembers desire. The wanting." She leaned forward, catching Cherry’s gaze and holding it. "Start small. Say yes if he asks you out. Smile back when he smiles. Let him buy you a drink. See what happens. What’s the worst that could happen? You have a mediocre drink with a nice guy? Or," her eyes sparkled, "you discover Devon knows exactly how to handle a bass guitar and a woman."
Before Cherry could formulate a response, the crunch of gravel on the path leading from Tasha’s side gate cut through the garden’s hum. Both women turned. Devon stood there, holding a brown paper bag dripping condensation and a six-pack of locally brewed IPA. He wore faded jeans and a dark grey t-shirt that stretched nicely across broad shoulders. Sunlight caught the hints of copper in his close-cropped hair.
"Hey Tash," he called, his voice a warm baritone that seemed to resonate in the quiet space. "Brought those tools Marcus needed. And some liquid motivation." He lifted the six-pack. His gaze shifted, landing squarely on Cherry. A slow, genuine smile spread across his face, lighting up his brown eyes. "Cherry. Good to see you. You look…" He paused, his eyes taking her in, lingering for a fraction of a second on the vibrant orange fabric draped over her curves. "…refreshing. Perfect for this heat."
Cherry felt the warmth in her neck blaze into a full inferno climbing her cheeks. Her hand tightened instinctively around her wine glass. She opened her mouth. Closed it. Say something witty. Say 'thank you'. Say anything. Her mind, usually so quick, felt frustratingly blank under the weight of Tasha’s words and Devon’s steady, appreciative gaze. The hum of the bee seemed suddenly very loud. The scent of jasmine, overwhelmingly sweet. The silence stretched, thin and taut, vibrating with unspoken things. Devon’s smile stayed, patient. Questioning. Waiting. Cherry took a shaky breath, her pulse a frantic drum solo against her ribs. He sees you.
The silence stretched, thin and taut. Cherry could hear the frantic drum solo of her own pulse against her ribs, threatening to drown out the lazy buzz of the bee and the distant city hum. He sees you. Tasha’s words ricocheted inside her skull. Devon’s warm brown eyes held hers, patient, that appreciative smile still playing on his lips. The vibrant orange fabric of her dress suddenly felt too thin, too revealing under that steady gaze.
"Th-thank you," she managed, the words escaping in a breathy rush that sounded nothing like her usual sharp tone. Heat bloomed violently from her neck, engulfing her face. She clutched the cool wine glass like an anchor.
Devon’s smile deepened, crinkling the corners of his eyes. "Anytime." He moved then, not towards the house where Marcus presumably waited for the tools, but towards the picnic table. Towards her.
He didn’t hesitate. He slid onto the wooden bench right beside her, the worn planks creaking slightly under his weight. Close. Really close. His denim-clad thigh pressed firmly against the side of her bare leg, the heat of him radiating through the thin cotton of her dress onto her skin. Cherry instinctively tensed, her thick thighs squeezing together tightly. Properly. It was an automatic defense, a shield formed from years of deflecting unwanted advances, of guarding her space fiercely.
If it had been any other guy – some slick talker at the club, some handsy coworker, hell, even Marcus if he was feeling particularly playful after a few beers – she would have snapped. A sharp elbow, a hissed "Personal space, buddy," maybe even a swift relocation down the bench. Her boundaries were non-negotiable.
But this was Devon. Sweet, steady Devon. The guy who brought tools and craft beer, whose voice was like warm molasses, who Tasha swore had been watching her with genuine interest for months. His proximity wasn't invasive; it felt… comfortable. Confident, yes, but without a hint of the smarmy entitlement she usually encountered. He settled beside her as naturally as if this was his designated spot, his long legs stretched out slightly under the table, his arm resting easily on the tabletop near her wine glass. He smelled faintly of sawdust, sunshine, and the clean, grassy scent of the IPA.
He held out a dripping bottle towards her, condensation beading on the dark glass. "Trade you? This might hit the spot better in this heat." The label was from that funky little brewery downtown Tasha loved.
Cherry stared at the bottle, then at his hand holding it. Strong fingers, blunt nails, a faint callus near the base of his thumb. Bass player’s hands. She slowly unclenched her own hand from the wine glass stem. Her fingers brushed his as she took the cold bottle, sending a tiny, unexpected jolt up her arm. The chill was a shock against her overheated skin.
"Thanks," she murmured again, the word feeling slightly steadier this time. She lifted the bottle, the hoppy aroma tickling her nose. She took a small sip, the cold, crisp bitterness washing over her tongue. It was better. Refreshing.
Devon set the paper bag of tools on the table with a soft thud and cracked open his own beer. He took a long pull, his throat working. Cherry watched the movement, acutely aware of the solid warmth of his leg pressed against hers. It wasn’t moving, wasn't seeking more. It was just… there. A point of contact humming with a low, unfamiliar current. Her thigh muscles relaxed infinitesimally, the tight, protective clench easing just a fraction. She didn’t scoot away.
Tasha, watching this entire silent exchange with the rapt attention of a general observing a successful maneuver, leaned back, a slow, triumphant grin spreading across her face. She took a deliberate, noisy sip of her wine. "So, Devon," she drawled, the picture of innocence. "How’s the band? Heard y'all have a gig at The Blue Vine next weekend?"
Devon turned his head slightly towards Tasha, his shoulder brushing Cherry’s arm. "Yeah, Friday night. Trying out some new stuff." He shifted, just a little, settling deeper into the bench. The pressure against Cherry’s thigh intensified, a firm, undeniable line of heat. He glanced back at Cherry, his gaze warm and direct. "You should come check it out, Cherry. If you’re free."
Cherry took another sip of the IPA, the cold liquid doing nothing to cool the flush on her cheeks or the sudden, fluttery sensation low in her belly. The bass case thumped softly against the table leg as Devon adjusted his position again. She could feel the vibration through the wood, through the bench, echoing the low thrum building inside her. His leg remained a steady, warm presence against hers, an anchor in the suddenly charged air thick with jasmine and possibility. She met his eyes, the bottle cool in her suddenly warm hand.
She met his eyes, the bottle cool in her suddenly warm hand. The buzz of the bees seemed to sync with the low thrum vibrating from the bass case resting against the bench. His leg, a solid line of heat against hers, felt both grounding and unnerving. "The Blue Vine? Next Friday?" Her voice sounded normal, thank god. Mostly. "I think I'm free." It wasn't a lie. Her calendar was a desolate wasteland of potential and dread.
Before Devon could respond, Tasha slammed her empty wine glass down on the weathered wood with a decisive thunk. "Think? Girl, know." She beamed, the picture of benevolent scheming. "Because I am dragging your reluctant ass down to that bar this weekend whether you like it or not. Consider it mandatory therapy. Bass therapy." She waggled her eyebrows at Devon. "Loud therapy."
Devon chuckled, a low, warm rumble Cherry felt more than heard through their connected legs. "I'll try not to disappoint the therapist."
"See?" Tasha pushed back from the table, the plastic legs scraping on the patio stones. "Sorted. Now," she stretched, feigning nonchalance, "I gotta go bother my man about those tools before he tries to 'fix' the toaster again. Disaster waiting to happen." She pointed a finger at Devon. "You. Keep my girl company. Make sure she finishes that beer. Fortification for Friday." She leaned down, rummaged in the large woven bag hanging on her chair, and pulled out a slightly crinkled plastic baggie containing one large, lumpy chocolate chip cookie. "Here, Cher. You skipped lunch. Brain food."
Cherry’s hand moved automatically. The scent of butter and chocolate hit her, triggering an immediate, almost childish craving. Sexual frustration turning into a kid sweet tooth. The thought flickered, unbidden and embarrassingly accurate. She’d been stress-eating gummy bears by the bagful since the divorce papers were served. She took the cookie without a second thought. "Thanks, Tash."
"Anytime, babe." Tasha watched, a flicker of something unreadable in her eyes as Cherry took a big, satisfying bite. The cookie was dense, chewy, studded with generous chunks of chocolate. Good. Really good. Cherry took another bite, savoring it, the sugar hitting her system like a tiny comfort bomb. Devon watched her eat with a small, amused smile, taking another slow pull of his beer. The silence between them was suddenly comfortable, charged with the intimacy of shared quiet and proximity, the scent of jasmine and cookie and Devon’s clean, woody smell mingling in the warm air.
Cherry was halfway through the cookie, licking a smear of chocolate off her thumb, when Tasha, already backing towards the side gate path, dropped the bomb.
"Oh! And Cherry? Just so you know?" Tasha’s voice was pure, unadulterated mischief. "That wasn't just a cookie. It's an edible. Marcus's special 'relaxation blend'." Her grin was wide and utterly unrepentant. "Enjoy the bass therapy preview!" And with that, she spun on her heel and practically sprinted towards the house, her laughter trailing behind her like glitter.
Cherry froze.
The half-eaten cookie suddenly felt like lead in her hand. Chocolate smeared her thumb, her lip. The warm, comforting sugar taste curdled in her mouth. An edible. Marcus’s "special relaxation blend." Which, knowing Marcus, meant potent enough to glue an elephant to the ceiling.
She stared at the remaining cookie, then at the empty space where Tasha had just been. Betrayal, cold and sharp, warred with a rising tide of panic. She was standing on the crumbling edge of the "Good Girl" cliff. Divorced, yes. Curious, definitely. But Cherry Bentley did not do recreational drugs. She got tipsy on wine coolers. She followed rules. Mostly. She paid her taxes early.
Her wide, horrified eyes snapped to Devon. He hadn't moved. His leg was still pressed warmly against hers. His expression was… assessing. Watching her process the grenade Tasha had just lobbed. A flicker of surprise, maybe concern, but mostly a deep, unsettling calm. And something else. A spark of… understanding? Amusement? She couldn’t tell. The dappled sunlight seemed suddenly too bright, the buzz of the bees unnervingly loud, the floral scent cloying. The warmth spreading through her wasn't just from the sun or Devon’s proximity anymore. It was a slow, insidious crawl from her core, a fuzzy blanket being pulled over her senses way too fast. Her fingers felt slightly numb around the cold beer bottle. She was going to kill Tasha. Slowly. After she figured out how to navigate the next hour without humiliating herself permanently in front of the one guy who apparently saw her and might actually want her, while her brain slowly melted into goo. The solid weight of Devon’s thigh against hers was the only anchor in a world suddenly tilting on a very strange, very potent axis.
The solid weight of Devon’s thigh against hers was the only anchor in a world suddenly tilting on a very strange, very potent axis. Panic, cold and sharp, sliced through the initial wave of fuzzy warmth blooming in her chest. An edible. Marcus’s "special blend." Which, knowing Tasha’s perpetually baked husband, probably contained enough THC to launch her into low Earth orbit.
Her fingers clenched around the half-eaten cookie. Chocolate smeared her thumb, sticky and accusing. She stared at it, then at the empty space where Tasha had vanished, betrayal warring with sheer disbelief. "She drugged me," Cherry whispered, the words sounding thick and slow even to her own ears. "Tasha actually drugged me."
Devon hadn’t moved. His leg remained a firm, warm pressure against hers. He took another slow sip of his beer, his gaze fixed on her face. He wasn’t laughing. He wasn’t making a joke. His expression was calm, watchful. Assessing. "Marcus’s stuff is… effective," he said finally, his voice a low rumble that vibrated pleasantly through the point of contact between them. "But manageable. Usually." He paused. "How much did you eat?"
Cherry looked down at the wreckage in her hand. "Half? Maybe a little more? It’s… really good cookie." The admission slipped out, absurdly honest. The sweetness had been pure, comforting oblivion just seconds ago. Now it felt like a trap. The warmth was spreading down her arms, making her fingertips tingle. The dappled sunlight on the table seemed to pulse slightly. The scent of jasmine was suddenly overwhelming, a thick, sweet syrup clinging to the air. "Oh god," she breathed, leaning her weight more heavily against his leg, seeking the solidity. "I feel weird."
"Okay," Devon said, his voice utterly calm. No alarm. No judgment. Just… okay. He shifted slightly, just enough to angle his body more towards her. His arm resting on the tabletop brushed hers. "Breathe, Cherry. Slow. It’s just the cookie. Nothing bad’s gonna happen." He reached for the bottle of water he’d brought out with the beers earlier, unscrewed the cap, and nudged it towards her. "Sip this."
She fumbled for it, her movements clumsy. The cool plastic felt alien in her hand. She took a small sip, the water shockingly clear against the fuzzy thickness coating her tongue. The simple act helped, grounding her for a second. She looked at him, really looked. His brown eyes were steady, kind. The hint of copper in his close-cropped hair glinted in the sun. He smelled like sawdust and sunshine and that faint, clean scent that was just… Devon. "Why aren't you freaking out?" she asked, her voice sounding far away.
He gave a soft huff, almost a laugh. "Because Tasha pulling some impulsive, boundary-obliterating stunt is about as surprising as the sun rising. And because," he added, his gaze holding hers, "you're handling it. You’re sitting here, talking. You’re okay."
Was she okay? Her heart was definitely doing a complicated drum solo behind her ribs. The warm fuzziness was intensifying, wrapping around her thoughts like soft cotton wool. But the sharp edge of panic was dulling, replaced by a strange, detached curiosity. Colors seemed brighter. The green of the oak leaves overhead vibrated with an impossible intensity. The rough grain of the picnic table beneath her fingertips felt like ancient braille. And Devon… Devon felt incredibly solid. Real. His leg against hers wasn’t just pressure; it was a current of warmth, a connection anchoring her to the spinning world.
"I’m gonna kill her," Cherry stated, the words coming out slow, deliberate, laced with a surreal calm beneath the lingering outrage. "Like, properly. With planning. Something involving fire ants and that hideous ceramic frog collection she loves."
Devon’s lips twitched. "I’ll hold her down."
His quiet agreement, delivered with such deadpan sincerity, startled a genuine, slightly watery laugh out of her. It felt strange, bubbling up through the haze. "You’d help?"
"For this?" He gestured vaguely towards the incriminating cookie remnants. "Absolutely. That’s a felony-level cookie prank." He took another sip of his beer, watching her. "How’s the headspace? Getting floaty?"
"Floaty?" Cherry considered. The world had a soft, slightly out-of-focus quality. Sounds seemed to arrive a millisecond late. Her own thoughts felt… padded. But the frantic drumming in her chest had eased into a steadier, more manageable thrum. "Less ‘falling off a cliff’, more… gently bobbing in a really warm pool." She frowned, the effort significant. "Why is everything so… loud? The bees sound like tiny chainsaws."
"Perception amplification," Devon said casually, like he was discussing the weather. "Common side effect. Embrace the tiny chainsaws. They're just doing bee things." He nudged the water bottle again. "More water."
She obeyed, taking a longer drink this time. The coolness helped. She leaned her head back against the rough bark of the oak tree trunk behind the bench, closing her eyes for a second. The darkness behind her eyelids swirled with faint, pulsing lights. Five years. Five years of polite distance, of scheduled intimacy that felt like a chore, of feeling unseen, unfelt, undesired. Of her body slowly becoming a neutral territory, a vessel for function, not feeling. Now, every point of contact with the world felt heightened, demanding attention. The scratchy wood against her scalp. The humid air on her skin. The relentless thrum of the bees. And Devon’s thigh, solid and warm, radiating heat through the thin fabric of her dress onto her bare skin. It was… a lot. Overwhelming. But not entirely unpleasant.
She opened her eyes. He was still watching her, a quiet presence beside her. Not crowding, just… there. "Tasha said…" she began, her voice still thick, "…she said you’ve been asking about me."
His expression didn’t change, but she saw a flicker in his eyes. Acknowledgement. The faintest hint of color touched his cheekbones. "Did she now." It wasn’t a question.
"Uh-huh. Said you noticed my skirt at the barbecue." The words felt bold, fueled by the edible and the strange intimacy of the moment. The warm pool she was bobbing in felt suddenly deeper, warmer. "Said you watch me."
A slow, genuine smile spread across his face, softening the strong lines of his jaw. "Tasha talks too much," he said, his voice low. "But… yeah. I notice you, Cherry." His gaze traveled over her face, lingering for a heartbeat on her mouth, then meeting her eyes again. "Hard not to. You walk into a room… it changes." He paused, the weight of the simple statement hanging in the jasmine-scented air. "Been noticing for a while."
Her breath caught. He sees you. Tasha’s words echoed, amplified a thousand times by the thrumming in her veins and the intensity of his quiet gaze. The warmth pooling inside her shifted, coalescing lower, deeper. It wasn’t just the edible anymore. It was a spark catching, fanned by his words, his proximity, the undeniable heat of his leg pressed against hers. Five years of neglect felt like a distant, grey memory. Her body, awakened and sensitized by the drug, hummed with a sudden, sharp awareness of him. Of this. Of possibility.
The comfortable silence stretched, thick with tension now, a different kind than before. Not panic. Anticipation. A magnetic pull. Cherry’s fingers twitched where they rested on her own thigh, perilously close to his. She could feel the faint vibration of the bass case against the bench leg again, or maybe it was just her own pulse. The world narrowed to the dappled sunlight, the drone of the chainsaw bees, the scent of Devon, and the searing line where their bodies touched.
Suddenly, the absurdity, the betrayal, the sheer mess of it all rose up, mingling with the dizzying rush of attraction and the disorienting effects of Marcus’s baking experiment. A choked sound escaped her – part laugh, part groan. "God, Devon," she breathed, shaking her head, the motion making the world tilt gently. "This is… so messed up. I’m sitting here higher than a satellite, thanks to my lunatic best friend, and all I can think about is…" Her voice trailed off, her gaze dropping pointedly to where their legs met, then flicking back up to his eyes, wide and dark in the shifting light. The unspoken words hung between them, charged and dangerous: …how badly I want to know what your hands feel like without this damn bench between us.
Devon held her gaze, the calm in his eyes replaced by a focused intensity that mirrored the heat coiling in her own belly. His expression was unreadable, but the air crackled. He didn’t move away. His thigh pressed more firmly against hers, a deliberate, undeniable pressure. The hum of the bees faded into a distant buzz. All she could hear was the ragged sound of her own breathing and the low thrum of possibility vibrating through every nerve ending. The warm pool wasn't warm anymore; it was simmering. She tightened her fingers around the cool water bottle, the only solid thing besides him, bracing herself against the dizzying pull, the terrifying, exhilarating sense that the carefully reconstructed walls around her newly single life were about to be reduced to rubble – by a bass player, a drugged cookie, and the reckless machinations of a best friend who needed immediate, painful retribution. The confrontation with Tasha wasn't just inevitable now; it was a necessary purge before the world, tilted so violently on its axis, could possibly right itself. Cherry took a deep, shaky breath, the scent of jasmine and Devon filling her lungs, and felt a fierce, reckless determination ignite beneath the haze. Time to find Tasha.