The Awkward Path To Getting Lucky

In thirty-four days, it will have been exactly two years to the day since I’ve had sex.

Having sex wasn’t exactly high on Kat Carmichael’s priority list while her successful bakery was taking off, especially since things hadn’t been working very well in that department. And the last time she and her boyfriend, Ryan, even attempted the act, they found it to be physically impossible—resulting in pain and disappointment for Kat instead of sunshine and orgasms.

With just over a month until their four-year anniversary, Kat calls for a break in her relationship with Ryan, encouraging him to see other people while she throws herself into physical therapy. Yet even with the well-intentioned (but wildly inappropriate) attempts at help from her best friends, Kat quickly discovers that a solo mission may not be the best approach.

Fortunately, physical therapist Ben Cleary, the shop’s best (looking) customer, volunteers to help out—strictly as a friend, of course. But as the line between love and friendship begins to blur, Kat stands to lose much more than a functioning set of lady bits if she can’t figure out what to hang on to...and what to let go.

The Awkward Path to

Getting Lucky

Summer Heacock

To my dearest mother.

May this heartfelt dedication persuade you to

ignore the fact that this book is about vaginas.

Also, if you read past this page,

I can no longer guarantee direct eye contact.

Love you, Mommy.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Title Page

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

The Awkward Path to Getting Lucky - Recipes

The Best of Cup My Cakes

Coconut Cuppies with Pineapple Curd and Candied Bacon

Butter’s Legendary Crème Brûlée Cuppies

Coopertown Ravens Red Velvet Cuppies

Chocolate and Peanut Butter Cuppies

Strawberry Short-Cuppies

Acknowledgments

Copyright

1

I can’t frost this cupcake. My vagina is broken.

Get a grip, Kat, I tell myself. Nothing has changed in the last ten minutes. Nothing.

Nothing, except I looked at an invoice, saw today’s date and realized that in thirty-four days, it will have been exactly two years to the day since I’ve had sex. Two years. Two whole damn years. I don’t even see how that’s possible.

I mean, I’ve been busy! I was starting a business. That takes time. These cupcakes don’t decorate themselves.

And this one sure isn’t going to if I don’t get it together and focus. I’ve got about six minutes before the customer arrives to pick up his order, and I’ve got as many cuppies to ice in that time.

“You okay, Kat?” Butter asks, whooshing by me in a flurry of powdered sugar and edible glitter. Butter is all about the edible glitter. “Need some help?”

I shake my head. “Nope! I’ve got this!” Goddamn straight, I’ve got this. I’m a professional. I scrape off the shoddily piped chocolate buttercream and carefully squeeze out a perfect topper to the cupcake. I pick it up and set it in the to-go box before tackling the final five.

It’s not like I didn’t know it had been a while. I knew. But in my head it was maybe less than a year, because letting this go on any longer than that would be absolute madness.

The only reason I know it’s been almost two years is that the last time Ryan and I even attempted to have sex was on our second anniversary, and that was an unmitigated disaster.

Things had been stressful at the time. The shop had only been open for just over a year, still in that very manic sink-or-swim phase, and I’d been working nonstop. Then, on the night of our second anniversary, Ryan suggested that we move in together. Thanks to my eighty-hour work weeks, sex had become a sort of secondary thought for a few months leading up to the night, and even when we found the time or the ever-elusive mood, it just wasn’t working, physically.

That night, it became flat-out impossible.

Soon after, my gynecologist dropped the bomb: vaginismus. A disorder that sounds like a questionable Harry Potter spell, but the diagnosis meant that my jaunty bits had stopped functioning, muscularly speaking. Basically, it made sex really hurty, and it wasn’t something I was super in the mood for anyway, what with the promise of excruciating owies in place of sunshine and orgasms.

It made sense not to rush into cohabitation with Ryan while my junk was on the fritz, so we agreed to hold off until my nonfunctioning gal parts were back to behaving properly. Then, on our anniversary last year, he asked me again, but the issue remained, so we tabled the idea once more.

The plan was to try again this year.

This year on the anniversary that is coming up in thirty-four goddamn days.

How have I let this go on for so long? I don’t even remember the last time we talked about the issue. I suppose Ryan’s been waiting for me to take the lead. That’s sort of how our relationship works: I make plans, he rolls with it and fun times are had by all.

Except the whole sex thing, it would seem.

I guess it just sort of fell off my to-do list. There were more pressing issues to be dealt with. Like business plans and fondant sculpting seminars and scrambling with Butter and Shannon to get Cup My Cakes off the ground.

Two years, though.

I need to get laid. Like, yesterday.

I wonder if Ryan is freaking out about this as much as I am. Or, worse, what if he’s been freaking out about it for two years like I am right now, but I’ve had it pushed completely out of my mind? What kind of a hideous girlfriend am I?

I let him believe I’d handle everything, and now here I am—big fat not handling a damn thing.

I pop the last cupcake in the to-go box and seal it up just as the customer walks in. Ben Cleary, a regular who orders two dozen cupcakes every Wednesday for his coworkers. Always half chocolate, half whatever our special is, but prepared in allergen-friendly conditions because his assistant has a tree nut allergy. He’s a pretty awesome boss, I assume.

The front entrance opens, and in walk more customers. It’s our morning rush, when we get a combination of people coming in for coffee and muffins, and those who pretend they’re coming for muffins but are really coming for things covered in frosting.

I wonder if any of these people are dealing with broken bits... I remember my doc saying how common the disorder was, so the odds are good that there are some idle woo-woos in here on a fairly regular basis.

I feel a sudden and overwhelming urge to fix the situation right this very damn second. Now that it’s in my head, it’s all I can think about.

I wonder whether Ryan would be willing to give things a test run in the storage room over his lunch break...

Then I remember that today is his quarterly review with his team. The tie-wearing manager comes down from the fourth floor for the meeting and everything. I don’t think he could slip away from that, even with the promise of attempted midday delight.

Attempted. Even if I got him over here, or anywhere, for that matter, I don’t know if I could physically do it.

Two years.

Twoyearstwoyearstwoyearstwoyearstwoyears.

An urgent sense of panic is engulfing my sanity. There are several men in the mix of people standing in line to order. I start scanning them like I’m a lascivious cyborg. Are any of these specimens potentially sexually compatible?

Butter is handing change over to an older gentleman who comes in twice a week for coffee and a scone. He always wears a bow tie and a bowler hat with a Mr. Rogers cardigan, even if it’s ninety degrees out.

Sure, he’s probably in his late eighties, but I suppose it’s possible he still has some spring in his step. The liver spots on his hands do sort of bring out his eyes.

Stacking up the boxes of cuppies, I give Ben Cleary a good once-over as Butter and Shannon move to greet him at the counter. Hmm, he’s a good-looking fella. Very pale skin, blue eyes, dark hair, not too skinny, not overly beefy, kind of quiet. A jawline I could slice my hand open on.

My eyes drift from Ben to survey the front room of our shop. Sky blue walls with trim painted daffodil yellow and a springy green. Designed so that when you walk through the front door, seeing the decor combined with the tasty smells wafting from our kitchen is like stepping into a full-sensory hug.

The innocent decor contrasted with my hyper-focused surge of concentrated frogginess is unsettling at best.

“Uh, Kat?” Shannon says.

“Yes?” I say, my voice sounding detached as my unwholesome gaze shifts to a man who is at least in his sixties. He’s wearing a wrinkled lavender button-down shirt tucked into denim shorts and socks with his sandals, but I’m debating his sexual prowess nevertheless.

“Let go of the cupcakes, Kat,” she says, and I’m now aware of her attempting to tug the to-go boxes out of my arms. I release my grip and step back, and Shannon gives me a concerned look. “You okay there, Pumpkin?”

I blink at her. Butter is standing at the counter, pouring Ben a cup of coffee, and our new cake decorator, Liz, has come out from the back room to help with customers.

And then there’s me. Standing here sexually objectifying senior citizens.

Oh god. What am I doing? I don’t want to have sex with geriatrics or random customers. Ryan. I want to have sex with Ryan.

He and I are going to have one hell of a chat tonight. And, gods willing, some absurdly long-overdue naked time.

I look up at the kind old man I was just meat-marketing and feel mildly sick to my stomach.

“Uh, Kat?” Shannon nudges me.

“Yep,” I lie. “I’m great. I’m awesome. Super awesome.”

Shannon narrows her gaze at me, but swings the boxes around to Ben. “Can you finish up with him?” she asks me, her happy customer service expression already back on for the other customers as she moves down the counter.

“Sure.” I shake off the criminally unfortunate images that were just forming in my mind and make my way to the register, where Butter is now showing Ben the Cuppie of the Day.

“White chocolate with a raspberry jam center,” she says excitedly. No one loves cupcakes as much as Butter. She’s been here with us since day one, and she still gets kid-on-Christmas-morning excited to see these little culinary treats go out the door.

“They look great,” he says with a genuine smile. “The hidden truffles last week were a big hit.”

I grin. Butter looks like she’s going to squee out loud. The hidden truffle cupcakes were all her master plan.

She reaches behind her for a small jar of edible glitter with a brush sitting inside and, in her flustered state, starts dusting the tops of the white chocolate cuppies with reckless abandon.

“That’s her way of saying thank you,” I offer. “Not just anyone gets extra glitter, you know.”

Butter has been known to shower glitter on anyone she thinks needs a boost in their day. Everyone should have a Butter in their lives.

He raises an eyebrow. “I will cherish this honor.” He tips his coffee cup to us in a mock salute, takes his boxes and bids us both a good day.

Butter is on cloud nine. I’ve never seen someone better suited for her job. I love what I do—we all do—but even when we are all exhausted and bitching about the long hours and ungrateful customers who grouse over too much or too little frosting on their kids’ birthday cakes (yes, that happens), Butter is always happy to be here.

If I didn’t love her so dearly, I’d probably have to hate her.

Mr. Cleary heads out, as do Bowler Hat and Socks with Sandals, and we deal with the rush. I manage to avoid any more wildly inappropriate thoughts about our elderly customers and get my head back in the game.

Okay, so, yes. This is a problem. One that I need to deal with. But right now, I need to focus on getting through this Wednesday and an imminent staff meeting.

After the morning burst, we meet for a little huddle in the back room by the workstations. This routine is partly to gather our wits, and partly so we can stand and drink coffee and catch our breath without any potential customers catching us with our aprons down.

Shannon, Butter and I started Cup My Cakes together three years ago, and we all have our place in the arc of power. Shannon Brimley, tall and tough with a mop of curly blond hair tucked under a tied cake-themed handkerchief most days, is our master organizer. Mika “Butter” Kawai is our culinary genius and a perpetual ball of happiness, with beautiful black hair as thick as her finest buttercream, always pulled back into some sort of braid. Liz Watson, our newest employee, is the teeniest adult I’ve ever known, all pale skin and even paler hair, and the lord paramount of elegant cake artistry.

And then there’s me. The middle child. The resident cupcake decorator and sexless wonder.

“We sold out of the cranberry scones again,” Shannon says, taking a sinful sip of coffee. Shannon is the only one of our group who has taken the leap into the big leagues of the adult world. She’s been married for a decade and has two tiny little humans she actually created and manages to keep alive and everything.

Of the four of us, I imagine she sleeps the least.

“Should we make more tomorrow?” she asks.

“Maybe a couple?” I shrug. “I’d say no more than six. Then reevaluate.”

Butter nods. “I agree.” She picks up a chunk of blue fondant off the station and starts rolling it out. “And we definitely need to have another pan of brownies ready to go first thing in the morning from now on. This is the second week straight we’ve run out well before the end of rush.”

“Noted. Liz, how’s the Guffman cake coming?” Shannon says, scanning down her little scratch pad to-do list.

Liz makes a face and looks over at the cooling racks, where six layers of cake sit with fondant setting. “I’m about to assemble and then start the second-stage decorations. I kind of hate this cake.”

The Guffmans are avid followers of the Green Bay Packers, so for their wedding this coming Saturday, they requested a six-tier cake with a giant Cheesehead thing on it. It’s all bright green and yellow and orange colors, and there isn’t a single candy pearl to be found anywhere. It is, in fact, Liz’s worst nightmare in cake form.

“I can help with it!” Butter volunteers happily. Liz gives a small but appreciative smile.

“Don’t you have that fortieth anniversary cake to do next?” I ask Liz. “All covered in intricate stencils and edible rhinestones? Which I honestly had no idea were even a thing until you started working here.”

Liz perks right up. “Yes! I forgot about that order.”

I raise my mug. “See? There’s a light at the end of your Cheesehead tunnel.”

Shannon turns to me. “Where are you on the Sadie Hawkins order?”

We were contracted by a local middle school to provide tasty treats for their upcoming dance. Gesturing to the cooling racks in the back, I say, “The first hundred are cooling, I’ll start the rest now, and if I go all day, I should have all five hundred decorated long before it’s time to head home.”

“All right,” Shannon says. “Butter, you’re going to help Liz, and you’ll be working on the triplets’ smash cakes, yes?” Butter nods. “Great. And I’ll be restocking the front display case and working on the rest of the orders for tomorrow. I’ll also be doing a trial run of the personal pies so we can test those out before we launch them next week. Later today I’ll go and make our deliveries. Also, the Capuzo order is going out this afternoon, so everyone gird things.”

I roll my eyes. Mr. Capuzo is a semi-regular customer who comes in every few months and is either incredibly pleased with our services or pitches a raging holy fit about the weirdest things. Once he bought all the oatmeal raisin cookies in our display case, then came stomping back in five minutes later because he’d thought the raisins were chocolate chips. Never mind the fact that the cookies were clearly labeled—he still considered the raisins to be a “betrayal.”

I so would not have sex with Mr. Capuzo.

“Not it!” Butter calls out. “I’m still not over his meltdown from when the strawberry short-cuppies didn’t have as much filling as he thought they should. If I have to wait on him, I’ll cry.”

Shannon grins. “I’ll take him.”

“The hell you will.” I snort. “Last time you dealt with a jerky customer, you flung a cupcake at him.”

“It slipped,” she says, casually flipping through the papers in her hand.

“It slipped a good five feet and landed with surprising precision on his chest,” I correct her. “We had to pay for his dry cleaning. And Mr. Capuzo is too old to have you throw baked goods at his face—or his face through a window—so no, I will take the Capuzo when he comes in.”

Liz looks moderately terrified. Shannon smiles. “Kat is our Mouth,” she explains. “Butter cries, I throw things, Kat keeps us from getting sued.” Liz considers this and shrugs with apparent satisfaction. Shannon looks back at her list. “Okay. Is everybody good? Meeting over?”

“Actually, really quick,” Butter says, “I was thinking about doing the coconut cuppie with pineapple curd and candied bacon as the headliner tomorrow.” She can turn damn near anything edible into a gourmet cuppie. “When you’re out on deliveries, could you pick up some supplies?”

“God, yes,” Shannon agrees with an enthusiastic nod. “I think that’s my favorite of your recipes. Could you make an extra half dozen so I can take them home to Joe and the kids? They love those so much.”

Butter beams. “Sure!” she says. I foresee that extra batch getting the royal edible glitter treatment.

Looking around the shop, Shannon asks, “Is that everything?”

Butter and Liz nod. Shannon takes in a deep breath, smiles and sets her pad down. She takes another glorious sip of coffee.

“Oh, hey,” I add casually. “There is one thing.”

It’s very slight, but I swear I see her wince. “What did I forget? Is there another order?” She starts pulling invoices off the stack on her workstation and flipping through them.

I shake my head. “No, it’s nothing like that.”

Shannon sets the papers down and lets out a gust of air. “Okay, good. What’s up?” she asks, lifting her coffee mug to her lips again.

“My vagina is broken and Ryan and I haven’t had sex in almost two years and it’s really distracting. Help.” A strangled, rupturing sound escapes from Shannon, and suddenly it’s raining coffee in the kitchen.

2

“Wait...” Butter asks, her eyes aghast. “What do you mean your vagina’s broken? How do you break a vagina?”

Liz, looking horrified, leans toward me and whispers, “Did you fall on it or something?”

I blink at her. “No. No, I didn’t fall on it.” Shaking my head, I answer, “It’s a disorder. Well, that’s what my doctor said two years ago, anyway.”

Shannon stops mopping the spit coffee off her station and points her towel at me. “Is it vulvodynia? Vaginismus? Vaginitis?”

My jaw flops to my chest. “Vaginismus. How could you possibly know that?”

She barely restrains an eye-roll as she resumes wiping down the coffee-splattered counter. “Oh my god, when you said your vagina was broken, I thought it was something like cancer, you dork.” She moves down the station and pushes her towel across the coffee-splattered floor. “I went through vaginismus after Heidi was born.”

Butter wheels around. “Wait! Your vagina is broken, too?”

“It’s been broken for seven years?” A very unfortunate whimper escapes me.

She looks up at us with that semi-irritating mom expression she uses when we push her patience a smidgen too far. “Guys. No. I was having trouble for a few months after I had Heidi, and the doctor said it was vaginismus. So I went to a physical therapist for maybe three months, did the rest of the therapy at home and I haven’t really had any issues since.”

I’m gaping at her. “How did I not know about this?”

Shannon grins. “Sorry. Next time one of my reproductive parts shorts out, I’ll be sure to bring it up at a staff meeting.”

I stick my tongue out at her.

“Wait,” Butter interrupts. “Physical therapists...for your...vagina?”

“Yes.”

“But...” She blinks at me, and then at Shannon. “For your vagina.”

Shannon lets out a deep sigh. “Yes.”

“They have those?” Liz squeaks. Shannon nods. “Around here?” She nods again.

Butter explodes. “Are you freaking kidding me? We don’t have an Olive Garden, but we have vagina therapists? What even is real life?”

Shannon ignores Butter’s outrage and focuses on me. “How have you had this for two years? You’re with Ryan!”

“We’ve been in a...dry spell,” I say evasively.

“Honey, you guys have gone two years without sex?” Shannon asks, awed. Liz’s eyes get wider.

“Technically,” I say with a huff, “it’ll be two years in thirty-four days. The last time we tried was on our second anniversary.”

Clutching her glitter brush like a security raft, Butter looks traumatized. “Tried? As in, you couldn’t even do it?”

As I’m trying to think of a way to explain this to her without causing her irreparable mental harm, Shannon moves in front of Butter. “It’s like this,” she says. Shannon holds up her hand and points a finger at Butter’s face. “If I try to poke you in the eye, what happens?” As she moves her hand closer, Butter instinctively slaps it away.