by Sara Ney
Do I sound like a snob because I don’t want her leftovers? Probably, but blame it on a lifetime of being hungry and not having enough to eat. In a way, I feel entitled to be a picky eater now that I can afford groceries.
“No, I’m not a snob—just not in the mood for leftovers, that’s all.”
“Oh, now that you have those gift cards burning a hole in your polyester pockets, you’re hot shit, eh?”
I glance down at my lap, at the gray slacks I had professionally altered and that cost more than I used to make in a week working at the coffee shop near campus when I was still a student. “These are a wool blend.”
“Brooks, I’m only teasing. If you want to have dinner with me, just say so.” I can practically hear her twirling her hair.
“I don’t want to have dinner with you.” Can’t. “But since we both have to eat, we could do it in the same room.”
“Wow. How romantic.”
“I’m not asking you on a date.” How can I make this any clearer? “I just don’t want your slim offerings.”
“I wasn’t offering to feed you! Not once! You asked what I had planned for dinner and I told you I was having leftovers. Stop twisting everything I say to suit your goals. And if you want me to come over for dinner, just say so.”
“I don’t want you to come over for dinner.”
“Okay then. I won’t.”
I hesitate, feeling like a world-class dipshit. I mean, she’s amazing and I love spending time with her—is it necessary for me to completely shut her out? After all, can’t we all use a few good friends?
Plus, her apartment is better than mine; her fridge is completely stocked, thanks to our nan; she has fresh flowers so it smells really good; and her view is insane.
Barring that horrible fucking cat, her place wins top prize in every category.
“Should we order food and eat it at your place? I have these gift cards—go online and pick something out.”
“Are you telling me what to do? You’re so bossy.”
“Do you want mystery chicken combo, or do you want Flocke and Brow?”
“Do you honestly think that place is going to deliver?” Abbott snorts again—so unladylike. “You’re out of your mind.”
“Please. I intend to drop Nan’s name all over town like a bad habit—dinner will be on your doorstep at six.”
“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather use the gift card to go to the actual restaurant instead of eating at home? Where’s the fun in that?”
She has a good point, but I’m about to make a better one. “Because I’m all peopled out and you make me laugh.”
I can see her defenses melting like warm butter on a hot summer day. I hear her smile. “Make it seven and you have yourself a date.”
“You have yourself a deal, not a date.”
“Sure, surrre, whatever you say, lover boy.”
Fuck. “No flirting tonight. We’re just friends, remember?” She’s the one who said it, not me, and it’s best that I remind her of that. Shit—it keeps me in check, too.
Abbott is funny, cute, successful—it would be too fucking easy to fall in love with her…
“If you keep bossing me around, I’m going to put the cat on your lap when you sit down.”
I hiss. “You wouldn’t dare.”
“Try me.”
11
Abbott
Brooks arrives before the food does, and Desdemona and I are on the couch when the first knock of the evening sounds through my compact but stylish apartment.
I breeze down the little hallway, checking my reflection in the mirror hanging above the small table I normally use for my keys, mail, and purse. My dark hair is down, wavy, and looks amazing against my baby blue sweatshirt. It’s velvet and ridiculously soft, so—not your average sweatshirt, but casual enough that it doesn’t look like I’m trying.
I’ve thrown on a pair of dark, charcoal gray leggings. They have a hint of sheen and are skintight. Bare feet.
He’s not going to notice what you’re wearing, Abbott. Why did you even bother? Nervously, I push my hair behind my ears. It’s meh. Pull it back down, giving it a fluff. A few strands fly up from static, and I curse. “Stop. He’s going to know you were fussing.”
Why am I fidgeting? It’s just Brooks.
Just Brooks? Is there such a thing?
Brooks is clever and…
…and has my stomach twisting into a knot. I take a few breaths as I continue fretting in the mirror, running a hand down my silky hair, finger combing it for the umpteenth time. Ruffle it to give it volume. Smooth it back down.
“Ugh!”
Okay, so he’s not ha ha funny, and let’s get real here—he’s definitely not funnier than I am.
What he is, though, is heart-stoppingly handsome. Maybe not in the classical way; certainly there are guys who are far better looking. Still, something in the way he carries himself has had me lying in bed the past few nights, staring up at the ceiling in my bedroom, daydreaming.
Remembering his face as the elevator doors closed on him. His expression when he blew through the stairwell door, flushed and breathing heavy. The way he looked when Desi hissed at him the first time they met.
I glance behind me to check for the cat as Brooks knocks for the second time; this time, I’m ready, yanking open the door too hard. Too eager. Too flushed. Too done up.
Ugh, I hate myself right now.
“Sup, buddy?” He gives me a nudge when he bounds into my tiny foyer, kicking off his sport sandals next to the door, giving them a tap so they’re off to the side.
His nose goes in the air, sniffing. “I don’t smell anything,” he muses. “Why don’t I smell anything?”
“It only took you fifteen minutes to change—what, are you expecting Superman to deliver the food?”
“Kind of. I mean, I said Nan Margolis no less than four times in a five-minute conversation with the manager of Flocke and Brow.”
“The manager?”
“Manager approval is the only way to get anything delivered from that place.”
I shake my head with a smile on my face, closing the door behind him. Trail along after when he goes to the kitchen, puts some ice in a glass, pours himself a water. Takes a second one out and repeats the process for me.
“Water okay?” He finally glances at me over his broad shoulder. He’s wearing a navy Henley and gray lazy pants, the kind that make his ass look round and thighs muscular and—
“Earth to Abbott?” He’s holding the glass out in front of my face; I hadn’t noticed because I was objectifying him sexually. “Hello?”
Oops. “Thanks.”
When I reach for the cup, my fingers cover his and I shiver. Shake it off because he isn’t into me that way, sees me as a friend, and I’d do best to remember that.
Thankfully, the awkward moment is interrupted by another knock. Brooks flees to the door. “Thank God you’re here—I could eat the ass out of a dead skunk,” is his greeting.
I poke my head around the corner in time to see Brooks slide a twenty-dollar bill into a young man’s hand then send him off with a pat to the bicep. “Thanks, man. We appreciate it.”
We.
My ovaries clench.
He didn’t mean we as in we, Abbott. Calm down. Get a grip.
Still, seeing him slide that kid a fat tip has my girl parts hot and bothered. I love a guy who is generous, and Brooks just showed me a layer of himself I’ve never seen.
Realistically, it’s because other than hanging out in this apartment, we’ve only been in his. We’ve never been in public together. Never been outside, never gone to a coffee shop or a restaurant.
I sigh.
Oh well.
Resigned to the fact that I’m probably not his type, I shuffle into the kitchen and start pulling out plates. Forks. Knives. Napkins.
Brooks is buzzing from excitement (and hunger) when the bags get set on the counter—two loaded, top handle bags with ribbons securing them clos
ed and the food safely inside, piping hot and fresh.
Soon, we’re prepping our plates, loading them up with pasta and ribeye steak and vegetables, desserts of key lime pie and crème brûlée left inside the bag and placed in the fridge. Shortly after that, we’re settling into our spots in the living room—me on one end of the couch, him on the other. The same spots we occupied the other time he came and crashed at my place.
Almost like we’ve settled into a routine, natural and…casual.
It’s nice.
“What are you into?” He’s looking at the television, so I’m not sure if he wants to have a conversation, or if he’s just being polite.
I wait until he makes eye contact to ask, “What do you mean—like, what are my hobbies?”
“Sure.” He shrugs. “What are your hobbies?”
He’s twisted his body to face me, legs up on the sofa, plate balanced in his lap.
Sure? Was that not what he meant? Why would he say it like that? “My hobbies. Uh, let’s see. I collect…” I stop myself, because he’s not asking what I collect. He wants to know what I do for fun, outside these walls.
I think. Gather my thoughts and a forkful of dinner, then continue. “For fun I love walking through the city in the evening, just as it gets dark, with a hot cup of tea. Especially when it’s cold out.” Is that lame? “Oh—I also love antique shops.” Shit, I sound like Nan. Those are her hobbies, which, I suppose, would make sense since she helped raise me. “I love shopping, but not for myself. I love giving presents. And, um…hmm. I don’t know, baseball.”
Brooks’ brows shoot up. “You? Baseball?”
“Sure, I mentioned it before. Plus who doesn’t love baseball?”
“I can list a thousand people who don’t,” he quips arrogantly.
“Please, you don’t know a thousand people,” I shoot back, stabbing a carrot with the tines of my fork. “But you’re right, I bet not a lot of women you meet are the type who like baseball.”
He already knows my family has a suite at the stadium, and if he wanted, we could use it for any game he wanted to watch in person. He would be fed and could see all the plays from the best seats in the place.
I feel myself blushing. “I do really love baseball. My grandparents—mostly Grandpa—took me when I was a kid. My brother hated it, but I always loved it.” It’s been years since I’ve been to a game, but I doubt I’ve lost my zest for it—the loud thunder of the stadium during a scoring play, the cheers during a stolen base, the boos.
The hot dogs.
My stomach growls and I take another bite. “What are your hobbies?”
“Baseball. I like sports.”
“Do you like watching them in bars?”
He nods. “Fuck yeah. Who doesn’t?”
“In this city? Plenty of people.” You’d be hard-pressed to find a dingy sports bar in this city of snooty people, but I have a hidden gem I’ve been known to kick back in on game day. “I know a great place to watch in if you don’t want to hit the stadium. We should go sometime.”
“What’s it called?”
“I can’t tell you.” I nibble the end of a piece of asparagus.
“Can’t, or won’t?”
“Yes.”
“I hate when you do that.” He’s frowning, cramming a hunk of meat into his mouth.
“I’ve literally never done that before.”
“But you will, and when you do, it’s going to annoy me.”
“Noted.”
Note to self: repeat that specifically to annoy him.
“Can I ask you something?”
I hate when people start sentences that way. I also hate
Now, don’t take this the wrong way and No offense, but… So when Brooks faces me, plate on his lap, expression earnest, I cringe a little inside as I crunch down on my food and chew, no idea what he possibly wants to ask me.
“I guess so?”
“Why did you friend-zone me?”
Not what I was expecting. “Did I?”
“Yes. You’ve called me dude, buddy, and friend at least a dozen times.”
“So?”
“So—girls don’t friend-zone me. I friend-zone them.”
I set my plate down, resting the fork along the edge, placing the utensils in the perfect ten and two position. “How long has this been driving you crazy?”
“Since you called me buddy when you asked me to check on the cat.”
“Did I though?”
“You did and you damn well know it.”
Jeez, why is he so bent out of shape about it? He hasn’t made a single move on me, nor has he flirted or done anything else that’s led me to believe he was interested. “Do you want to date me?”
“God no.”
“Then why are we having this conversation?” Is his ego so fragile that he can’t handle me not falling at his feet? He’s handsome and smart and successful with no shortage of women throwing themselves at him—what does he need me for?
“I was wondering.”
“You and I both know I’m giving you exactly what you want, so stop bitching about it.” I will never be the kind of girl who allows herself to be a notch on someone’s bedpost.
No matter how my feelings for him are changing.
“You’re awful quiet—what are you looking at over there?” Brooks has been quietly chuckling at his phone for the past few minutes. First he went on it to check a work email he’d been expecting, and ever since, something else has piqued his interest.
He almost never sits and plays on his phone.
The past four nights we’ve spent together, either on his couch or mine, bingeing our favorite shows and sharing dinner. It’s strange and oddly satisfying. Last night he was two hours late; showed up a bit drunk, reeking like cigar smoke and chattering about his buddies and bad decisions. I cannot for the life of me imagine what his friends are like, but if they’re anything like him…they do some stupid shit.
He’s smirking to himself, as if he has a secret. Something he can’t—or won’t—say out loud.
Is it a girl? Is he seeing someone?
His lips part. “I get these daily emails from Millennial Dictionary, and this word of the day is fucking hilarious.”
Millennial Dictionary is basically a modern take on the dictionary where readers and visitors are able to add definitions. A huge majority of the words are slang, gutter talk, or dirty.
“What’s the word of the day? Care to share with the rest of the class?”
Brooks grins. “I don’t think I can say it out loud.”
I feign irritation. “How old are you? Grow up and read the dumb thing out loud.”
“Okay, but if you’re insulted, remember you’re the one who wanted me to read it to you.”
Is he serious? “You’re over there giggling like an idiot, and you think I won’t want to know why? Hurry it up before I lose interest.”
“Fine.” He raises his phone and adjusts an imaginary pair of reading glasses set on the bridge of his beautiful nose. “Word of the day: sloppy toppy.”
I feel my nose wrinkling. “What the hell is a sloppy toppy?”
“A wet blow job. With, uh—lots of drool.”
“That’s…porny.”
“Tell me about it. Disgusting, right?” He wrinkles his nose, as if the notion of a wet BJ is unbearable.
I don’t believe for one second Brooks Bennett thinks a wet blow job is disgusting. Still, he says it with a straight face, lowering his phone and shrugging as he sets it on my glass coffee table.
I’m still holding the carton of shrimp with bora in my hands, and I spear one with the tip of my fork. It’s poised in the air, in front of my face when I say, “Know what a nice gift would be for your one-night stands? A box of tissues to wipe the spit.”
“One of my one-night stands? Uh, you have way too much faith in my ability to get laid these days. But that actually would be nice! And so thoughtful—according to Millennial Dictionary, they’re super fucki
ng sloppy. Tissues would be a nice touch.” He leans over, peers down into my carton, and steals a shrimp. “Generous, even.”
“I wonder if there are recommendations anywhere for bibs with the highest rate of absorption—in the long run, that might be cheaper than constantly buying boxes of tissues.”
“So, a blow job bib? Now there’s an idea.”
A blush colors my cheeks at the compliment. “I’m nothing if not practical.”
“Maybe you’re onto something here—something to keep her clothes from getting cum on them that allows for easy cleanup? Not everyone swallows.”
“So true,” I agree with a nod, the visual of giving Brooks a blow job suddenly entering my mind and making me blush harder. Jeez, I have seriously got to give dating another shot—if I’m lusting after Brooks, I’m in a drier drought than I thought.
Brooks tilts his head. “Possibly sold at a novelty store?”
“A blow job bib really is genius. We can sell those to all the sex shops and make a bloody fortune. We can plan the whole thing out on a cocktail napkin.” I look around my living room. Not a cocktail napkin in sight.
“You said cock.” My neighbor laughs like a ten-year-old boy who’s into potty humor.
“No more socks or paper towels necessary for a sloppy toppy—that could be our slogan.” We just keep going and going, the endeavor taking root and making us both laugh as we shout out slogans and products and marketing ideas.
“Fuck, maybe I should quit my job and start a business with you. Who needs to design buildings and create entire communities when we can change the landscape of the sex industry?”
Duh. “Honestly, Brooks—I doubt we’ll even need investors. Just a little seed money—get it? Seed? Semen.”
We both laugh drunkenly, though we’re both completely sober.
Brooks hoots. “A bit of scrap fabric and a dream. Ah, I can see it now.”
That gives me another brilliant idea. “What if we threw in a free hair clip with purchase? Or like, a hair tie.”
“Jesus Christ, yes. Fuck yeah to the hair clip. God, it’s not even nine o’clock and we’ve already built an entire business off of blowies before putting on our pajamas. We’re brilliant. We could build an EMPIRE!”
