The Diary of Lexi Ashford

Jessica Sorensen

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Copyright © 2015 by Jessica Sorensen

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of characters to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The author holds exclusive rights to this work. Unauthorized duplication is prohibited.

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The Diary of Lexi Ashford

(Lexi Ashford: Part One)

By Jessica Sorensen

Table of Contents:

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

About the Author

Chapter 1

I’ve been called a walking disaster. Chaos just seems to happen around me. When I was younger, I believed I was jinxed, that cosmic forces were against me. I still wonder if fate despises me because even days that start out perfect end up a catastrophe.

But I’m convinced today is going to be a great day.

The first great day potential: I wake up ten minutes early, which never, ever happens. Normally, I’m one of those people who smack the snooze button at least ten times before dragging their cranky ass out of bed.

After I nearly skip out of bed, I hop into the shower, and for once, the water doesn’t run cold in the first three to four minutes. Warm shower, hell yes! I haven’t seen one of those since I moved into this apartment almost a year ago.

I’m also having a fantastic hair day. My usually frizzy, I-just-stuck-my-finger-in-an-electrical-socket, brown curls lay perfectly tamed down my back. I finally get that smoky eye thing down after trying for years and always ending up looking like a bug-eyed raccoon beanie baby. I’m rocking my favorite outfit: a black turtleneck and plaid skirt, topped off with black tights and matching platforms.

Right as I exit my apartment to head off to work, I receive a text from Max, a guy I’ve been obsessed with ever since I started working for Dana and Morella’s Event Planning just a little over a year ago.

We’ve spent the last couple of weeks making out after work. Our secret, steamy lip-lock sessions first started when he was walking me to my car.

In classic, klutzy Lexi style, I got my heel wedged in the crack of the concrete and tripped. Thankfully, Max caught me in his arms, which was a very fine moment for me since I’d been fantasizing about being pressed to his chest for almost a year. Of course, in my fantasy, I didn’t sniff his chest and moan.

“Um, Lexi …” He sounded extremely uncomfortable as his arms tensed around me. “Did you just smell me?"

“Yeah … kind of.” What? I couldn’t help it. He smelled so amazingly good, like cologne and aftershave and, oddly enough, a bit like cinnamon rolls.

I expected him to shove me down and run. It wouldn’t be the first time a guy did that to me.

Instead, he chuckled. “At least tell me I smell nice.”

“You do … like cologne and cinnamon rolls.” I gazed up at him and found he was gazing down at me with so much intensity in his eyes my breath caught in my throat.

His lips parted, and I held my breath as I eagerly waited for whatever wonderful words were about to leave his lips. Because, with how intensely he was looking at me, I knew he was about to say something deliciously sexy.

“Well, I did eat a cinnamon roll for breakfast,” he said huskily.

Umm … Okay, so that wasn’t what I was expecting. Delicious, yes. Sexy, not unless I have a baked goods fetish. Still, I decided to seize the opportunity of being in his arms, stood on my tiptoes, and sealed my lips to his.

Afterward, we didn’t say much, just waved good-bye, hopped in our cars, and drove our separate ways. The next day, he walked me to my car, and we ended up kissing again. It’s been going on for two weeks now.

During the day, he’s merely my colleague, but by night, he’s my super sexy make-out buddy. Hell yeah! I’ve always wanted one of those. But deep down, I wanted more for Max than our little, sexy carport rendezvous. I wanted a date to go along with it.

So, at last night’s wedding party we were overseeing, I grew some lady balls—thanks to the two glasses of wine I drank—and gave him my number. I was so cool and suave about it, too. I was smiling and didn’t even spill wine on my dress, which is always a fantastic bonus.

“Hey, do you want my number, just in case you need to call me for anything?”

His lips tugged into that sexy, dimple grin. “Sure. I’ve been meaning to get it, anyway.”

I rattled off my number, and he entered it in his phone. Then he messaged me so I’d have his number on hand.

“I have to get back to work. I’ll catch up with you after the party, okay?” he said, which was code for let’s meet up at our cars and grind up all over each other.

Honestly, I didn’t really expect Max to get ahold of me so soon. I thought I’d be the one who got the ball rolling. But, holy crap, the text is from him.

Max: Hey! Great job last night. The party was kick ass. And afterward wasn’t too bad, either. ;) Maybe we could meet up this weekend and go over the plans for next month’s wedding. My treat.

I get so excited I do my infamous heck-to-the-yeah dance, which basically is a mixture between a cracked out tap dancer and an uncoordinated stripper. But who cares? Max asked me out on a date!

Even when my grumpy, nude-yoga teaching, fifty-something next door neighbor, Miss Finikey, notices me arm flailing and hip grinding in the hallway, my mood isn’t dampened.

“Don’t look at me like that,” I say with a huge-ass smile on my face. “Max asked me out. I have an excuse to act like a lunatic.”

She rolls her eyes as she scoops up her newspaper from off her front porch. “Oh, yippee. Cinnamon roll guy asked you out. Let me go grab my kazoo and party hat so we can celebrate this life changing occasion.”

I don’t bother pointing out that she’s practically in her birthday suit, wearing nothing but a sheet wrapped around her.

“I’ve wanted to go on a date with him forever, Miss F. You know that.”

“Yes, my dear. Unfortunately, I do know way too much about your boring obsession with a man who’s about as exciting as watching Mr. Welford do squats naked every morning. But it doesn’t mean I want to. You just insist on yammering my ear off all the damn time.”

“He isn’t that boring. And how do you know Mr. Welford does squats naked?”

She tucks the newspaper under her arm. “It’s not my fault he leaves his curtains cracked.”

“But you don’t have to peek through the curtains,” I point out with my hands on my hips. “And if you’re choosing to look, it can’t be that boring watching him.”

“Nothing is more boring than watching a sixty-year-old man clench his hairy ass. But”—she lifts her shoulder, shrugging—“I’ve got nothing better to do. Besides, he has some pretty decent moves for an old man. I even hired him to strip at one of my friends’ birthday parties.”

I cringe at the mental image. “Thanks. Now I’ll never be able to look at Mr. Welford the same again.”