Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 87863 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87863 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
He heaved a dramatic sigh before sliding from his side of the booth and flopping gracelessly beside me. “This feels like one of those odd psychology experiments, like facing the wrong direction in an elevator. People will stare.”
“Who cares? Pretend we’re sitting at a bar watching a football game.”
“Ew. I would never do that,” he huffed, resting his thigh against mine as he cradled his mug. “You misunderstood. I’m thinking of you. I don’t care who looks at me. In fact, I hope everyone notices the time and attention I put into choosing this outfit. Of course, in this part of town, you’ve got to do a hell of a lot more than sit next to a guy to get a second glance. If I dressed more like you and we got caught making out at our local pancake parlor, we’d trend on social media for sure. Kinda hot idea, but I couldn’t pull it off. Please tell me I don’t look straight today.”
“Nah, you look gay as fuck,” I assured him.
“Thank God.”
We held eye contact for a long moment and busted up laughing for no particular reason.
“I brought your sock, by the way.”
“Oh, right. My slutty sock.” Charlie glanced at my crotch with a mischievous smirk. “Gee, I thought you were just happy to see me.”
“Your sock is in my truck, smartass. Stop staring at my dick. You’re gonna give me a chubby.”
Charlie threw his head back and guffawed. “A chubby? I’d be honored. That always cracks me up. Sounds very…jock-ish. Or skater boy-ish, or…”
I sipped my coffee while he went into a monologue about stereotypical wardrobe quirks. Or something like that. I had a hard time concentrating with him so close. He smelled good this morning. Like designer cologne and toothpaste. I quelled the fierce urge to grab his chin and stick my tongue down his throat to taste him. It wasn’t easy. Just sitting next to him was a true test of willpower. I didn’t get it. The moment I’d spotted his BMW in the parking lot, my pulse had gone into overdrive.
I hadn’t walked away wanting more from a sexual encounter with a guy in years. Maybe suppressing family drama pushed Charlie to the front of my consciousness. The crazy thing was…well, it was Charlie I was talking about. Our unapologetically fabulous manager who specialized in social media trends and sarcasm. He was a self-proclaimed expert in a wide variety of subjects ranging from seasons three through six of RuPaul’s Drag Race and The Real Housewives of Orange County to the influence of bands like Led Zeppelin and Queen on modern music, and how to create a cyber ad campaign and turn an online presence into cash. He was smart as hell and fearless with it too.
But his vulnerable side kicked me in the gut. I felt a strong compulsion to do whatever I could to calm him. And maybe sitting next to each other was a strange approach, but it seemed to work. He was more relaxed already. More in control. His speech was animated and melodic. Sometimes sexy and joyful or silly and irreverent. In tempo, but never boring. Like music.
He’d turned to face me, setting his knee on the bench against my thigh. He was in constant contact with some part of me. Touching my shoulder or my hand as he spoke. I liked it. Of course, when our food arrived, he hopped up and moved back to his side to give himself more elbow room to eat. He thanked the waitress profusely as he arranged his side dishes in a half circle around the pancakes.
I picked up my fork and gestured at his feast. “You’re never gonna eat all that.”
“Never say never, Ky. You do the talking for a while.”
“Okay, briefs or boxers?”
That got him. Charlie swallowed a bite of pancakes and shook his head in dismay. “Talking, not asking questions. But the answer is boyfriend briefs…of course.”
“What color?”
“Today?”
“Yeah. Right this very second. Some guys wouldn’t remember unless they always buy the same package of Fruit of the Loom tighty-whities, but you’re not that guy.”
“Absolutely not,” he agreed primly.
“I’m gonna guess they match your socks. You look like a matcher.”
“You’re wrong. I’m a coordinator, not a matcher. And I’m not wearing socks.”
“That’s kinda gross,” I commented idly.
“Says the man who goes commando.”
“Hmph. Don’t your feet sweat?”
“Don’t your balls sweat?” he countered.
I chuckled. “Not too bad. I wear boxer briefs sometimes…when the feeling comes over me.”
“The boxer feeling. Got it,” he snarked. “Well, I have short socks on. The kind you can’t see.”
“What’s the point in that?”
“To not break the line.”
“What line?” I asked, spearing a bite of eggs.
“It’s fashion. You wouldn’t get it,” he said, ruining his dismissive once-over by lingering on my inked biceps a few seconds too long.
“Probably not. So…what color are your boyfriend briefs?”