Just My Type

by Tara Sivec

  Don’t judge me. It’s called mudding. It’s a country thing, and you can look it up.

  The first thing I said to Baker as soon as I got in this fucking Jeep? “You must have to wash this thing a lot, huh?”

  Thank God he got that phone call right then and didn’t have time to say something sarcastic about my inability to make sense in his presence, because I was most likely picturing him naked.

  Which I absolutely am. Especially when I can’t stop thinking about that damn audio recording of our night at The Hatchet House. I never should have transcribed that thing at home alone, in my dimly-lit bedroom, with a few candles burning, while sitting on my bed with pillows propped behind me and my headphones on, wearing my usual pajamas of just a tank top and underwear. It wasn’t until I had rewound Baker saying “You’re staring at my mouth. Probably imagining what it would feel like on your skin” for the thirty-seventh time with one hand, while my other hand slid its way down inside my underwear, when I glanced around the room and finally became rightfully shooketh. Without even realizing it, I had set up a goddamn masturbation den in my bedroom… to transcribe a work document… from my boss.

  I decided right then and there to burn Brooklyn’s stupid red-and-black flannel T-shirt dress. I’m only having these stupid thoughts and fantasies, because I thought it would be a brilliant idea to dress a little sexy for once, and maybe have a little fun with Baker in the process, turning the tables to see how he likes getting all hot and bothered when he’s trying to work. And then I pressed my body up against his. And touched his impressive arm muscles. And ran my hands over his hips and strong thighs, which I could picture being all tense and ridged between my legs with the strength of his forceful—

  “Okay, this is the place.”

  “Thrusts,” I sigh in response to Baker, realizing I just finished my thought out loud. “I mean trust. I trust you’ve done your research on this place.”

  With my back to Baker, I’m able to roll my eyes at myself without him seeing, as I get out of his Jeep he parked in front of the pet store. After he locks the Jeep and walks around the vehicle to meet me on the sidewalk, we walk up to the building, where he quickly moves in front of me to hold the door open.

  Before I let him distract me with his stupid gentlemanly manners, stupid man smell, stupid sexy voice, the way his stupid black jeans hug his stupid tight ass so perfectly, and the stupid white T-shirt that shows off his stupid impressive arms, I pull my phone out of the back pocket of my skinny jeans and quickly start recording. Stopping right inside the door, with the sounds of birds squawking and puppies barking, I turn to face Baker, bringing my fist up between us, pinky finger extended.

  “We are here to work, while also finding an age-appropriate pet for my son that will teach him responsibility, and give us both something warm to cuddle at night. There will be no flirting, roving hands, or sexual comments of any nature. This is strictly a business meeting. Pinky swear,” I state.

  He closes the distance between us and wraps his pinky around mine, that maddening dimple indenting his cheek as he looks at me.

  “I’m assuming we’re making this pinky swear for my benefit, since you can’t keep your hands off me and all that.” He smiles, eyeing our joined pinkies moving up and down between us as we “shake” on it. “It’s nice to know you take my comfort around you seriously. Also, I’m always available if you need a good cuddling, if this pet thing doesn’t work out.”

  Yanking my finger out of his grasp, I shake my head at him.

  “Pinky swearing is perfectly within the professional guidelines of this business arrangement. And it’s a legal, binding agreement, punishable in a court of law, to keep you in line. There is nothing flirty or sexual about our pinkies touching.”

  “Depends which part of you I’m touching with my pinky,” Baker mutters, his eyes taking their time scanning up and down my body.

  I thought wearing a pair of skinny jeans, a T-shirt with a flannel tied around my waist, an old pair of white Chucks, and throwing my hair up in a messy bun would deter Baker from looking at me like he’s trying to figure out which part he should taste first, but clearly not. I feel the heat from his eyes scorching a trail of fire over every inch of me he studies, until his eyes are back on mine again.

  “Behave. You pinky swore,” I growl, listening to him chuckle as I turn and walk away from him to start looking around.

  “What made you decide to get your son a pet?” Baker asks a few minutes later, after we’ve made it over to a huge pen of kittens in the middle of the room.

  We both squat down, sticking our fingers through the metal cage to pet a few of the little fluff balls.

  “Honestly? His father told me no.” I shrug, scratching a black kitten behind the ears.

  Baker laughs, and I glance over at him to see him focused on a white kitten with black spots currently chewing on one of his fingers.

  “That sounds about right. Something tells me you don’t really like being told no.”

  “It’s not just that; it’s the principal of the thing. He didn’t care that it would make Lincoln happy, or that he’s been working harder in school and doing extra chores to earn this pet. He didn’t even want to discuss it. He just flat-out said no, because he didn’t want to deal with it,” I explain.

  “And how did he take it when you told him you were going to do what you want?” Baker asks as we stand back up and move over to the wall of hamsters.

  “Silence. Complete, dumbfounded silence. Probably because I called him a dickhole and told him I would punch him in the face, after he made it sound like taking care of our son was already a chore and he didn’t want to add a pet to that mix,” I tell him with a sigh. “Contrary to what I’ve led you to believe, I haven’t always been so amazingly vocal about my feelings and what I’m thinking. I changed when I married Brandon. And changed even more when he moved us here, to fit the mold he wanted. I probably gave him a minor heart attack when I told him off, but damn, did it feel good. I felt like me again, and I haven’t really been me in a very long time. Not since I started—”

  I quickly cut myself off before I say something stupid like, “Not since I started talking to you.” When I realize I’ve been standing here rambling while I stared at a hamster running on its wheel, I turn to find Baker studying me.

  “Well, I happen to like the you I’ve gotten to know over the last month. Your ex is clearly a dipshit who didn’t understand the thrill of being with someone who challenges you and keeps you on your toes, wondering what will come out of their mouth next.”

  Not wanting to analyze how warm and fuzzy hearing him say that makes me feel, I walk away from him to look at another cage of hamsters, who are currently trying to see who can shovel the most food into their cheeks at one time.

  “I’m curious. You mentioned childcare options to me twice now in your emails. What exactly would you have done if I told you I needed a sitter?” I ask, watching Baker squat down to look into a tarantula cage. “Don’t even think about it. The only creepy-crawly things allowed in my home are the ones that have already met their timely demise by way of a rolled up newspaper or being smacked repeatedly with one of my shoes.”

  Baker laughs at me and stands back up as we continue strolling through the store.

  “I mean, is finding childcare really that hard? Can’t you just put out a bowl of water and throw some kibble at them?”

  An outraged gasp flies out of me, and Baker laughs again, quickly shaking his head at me.

  “I’m kidding! I checked with Blake both times before I sent you those emails, and she was fully on board to watch your son if needed,” he explains. “You already know she herself is a mom to my beautiful four-year-old niece, but she’s also certified in CPR, because she works at the gym. I trust her more than anyone else in this world. Just want to make sure you’re clear on that, and that I would never suggest letting someone take care of Lincoln who wasn’t absolutely trustworthy.”

  My dead, black he
art actually starts to fucking pitter-pat in my chest. Why does he have to be so sweet? Whyyy?

  “Oh, shit!” Baker suddenly shouts, stopping abruptly in front of a wall. “This is it. This is the pet you have to buy for him. It’s small, and awesome, and his friends at school will be so fucking jealous. You have to get it. You have to!”

  I can’t help but laugh at the excitement in Baker’s voice as I move around him to see what he’s looking at in the small glass enclosure built into the wall.

  “There’s no way that’s really for sale. Can people actually have these things as pets?” I ask curiously, melting just the smallest amount when it’s tiny, black, beady eyes stare at me through the glass. “Shit, he’s adorable. I want him. I don’t even care if he’s harder to take care of than a puppy. He has to be mine.”

  “Look at him. Just look at him. He’s all alone in there, just begging for you to rescue him,” Baker tells me, squatting down and gently rubbing his finger against the glass, the animal putting his nose right up against Baker’s finger on the other side. “Aren’t you, my little fluffy-wuffy, baby boy. Yes you are begging to be rescued with those sad, watery eyes. Does little cutie like to snuggle? I bet you do like to snuggle, don’t you?”

  An unladylike snort comes out of me, listening to Baker talk to the animal. He quickly stands up, clears his throat, and makes a show out of brushing his hands together, like he just finished chopping some wood, instead of baby-talking to an animal.

  “I’ll just… go find a manager and get all the details for you,” Baker informs me with a serious nod.

  “Make sure you tell the manager I want this little fluffy-wuffy, and not a different fluffy-wuffy,” I tell him, unable to keep my laughter in check.

  “Hey, I like animals. Don’t judge me,” he informs me, leaning his face closer to mine. “I especially like tiny little things who look all soft and sweet and cuddly, but might actually stab you if you get too close and piss them off. It’s very exciting.” With a wink, he pulls away from me. “I told you my expertise was needed today. Tell me I’m a genius,” Baker encourages.

  “You’re pissing me off, and I’m starting to feel stabby,” I mutter.

  He just smiles at me before turning and starting to walk away.

  “Hey! We can’t just get a pet and leave. We didn’t even get any work done! The whole point of you coming with me was so we could work!” I shout after him as he side-steps a dog food display.

  “Guess I’ll just have to go home with you then so we can finish working!” he shouts back over his shoulder before disappearing down an aisle, while I absolutely was not staring at his ass.

  Son of a bitch!

  “I have made a grave mistake,” I whisper into my phone as I peek around the corner of the hallway, where I’ve been hiding for the last ten minutes.

  “What’s he doing now?” Brooklyn whispers back to me, which is just ridiculous since she’s in Montana, and not standing next to me, acting like a stalker.

  Just like the last eight-thousand times I’ve looked around this corner since I scurried back here as soon as we finished building the cage, the same sight awaits me when I glance into my living room from the hallway—Baker, lounging back into the cushions of my couch, with his sock-covered feet kicked up on my coffee table, with that… little fluffy ball of asshole curled up on his chest, burrowing into the side of his neck.

  It’s so goddamn adorable I feel like I’m going to swoon.

  “He hasn’t moved. He’s still on the couch, snuggling that little asshole,” I mutter as quietly as possible, as I continue staring at the man who looks like he just… belongs in my home.

  He didn’t make me feel ashamed that my house is so small, and nothing matches because I got all my furniture and odds and ends at flea markets and Goodwill. He told me it was homey, and warm, and comfortable, and for some strange reason, I didn’t feel nervous showing him around. Granted, the entire tour of this place took roughly thirty-seven seconds and I didn’t have time to be nervous, but still. It felt right having him here, lounging on my couch, amongst my bargain basement things. And that was wrong.

  Sooo, wrong.

  “I still can’t believe you bought Lincoln a hedgehog for a pet.” Brooklyn laughs.

  “Shut up,” I complain softly. “It was Baker’s idea. And that little fucker is an imposter. He acted all sweet and sad at the pet store, and then as soon as we got him here, he turned into the devil incarnate.”

  Yes, I realize a hedgehog might sound like the most ridiculous pet for an eight-year-old boy, but I am kind of ridiculous, so it seemed fitting. Baker was right; it’s unique and awesome, and according to the manager at the pet shop, super easy to take care of. He weighs a little under two pounds, and he’s around the same size as a guinea pig. And he hates me.

  As soon as we walked in the door, that little fucker started hissing at me. Baker can love on that thing, and give it Eskimo kisses, and it falls asleep on his chest. I so much as look at it and it curls up into a ball, quills puffed out into attack mode, and it fucking hisses at me until Baker starts baby-talking it again.

  “Brandon is going to lose his shit when he drops Lincoln off after school and sees one, a hot man in your house with his shoes off all relaxed and comfortable, cuddling a tiny hell beast, and two, an actual hell beast that he now has to take care of fifty-percent of the time,” Brooklyn reminds me with a laugh.

  That second part she mentions causes me to smile, even as I continue staring at my new, traitorous pet. Imagining the look on Brandon’s face when I show him what I got Lincoln will be worth the annoyance of owning an animal who is constantly plotting my death.

  “The hot man in my house is my boss, and Brandon definitely won’t care about that,” I remind her.

  Brandon was never the jealous type. Which, in theory, sounds great, and easy, and stress free. In practice, it can kind of suck. Sometimes, you need the man you’re with to maybe get a little worked up when another man is showing you attention. I’m not talking full-out, drag-down fist fight, and I’m not talking every single day. Every once in a while would be nice. A little possessiveness with an arm around your waist. Maybe a touch of a glare in the other man’s direction, letting him know you’re taken. Something that proves to you that he knows what he has, he’s thankful for it, and he will in theory fight anyone who tries to take it away. It’s hot. And it’s something Brandon gave zero fucks about.

  “I’m not going to urinate all around you and mark my territory. It’s childish and a waste of time. I know you won’t be going home with anyone else, and you know you won’t be going home with anyone else, so why does it matter?”

  Brandon already knows about the interviews I’ve been doing with Baker. He doesn’t know Baker’s name or anything about him, but he knows the basics. He definitely doesn’t know how goddamn good-looking Baker is, or that I’m having a seriously hard time remembering why I wanted to keep things professional between us until our work is finished. It’s not like that matters anyway. Even if Brandon walked in and found me and Baker humping, he wouldn’t care.

  Stop thinking about humping Baker.

  “Sadly, we will not be witnessing Brandon lose any kind of shit, because he has a meeting that ran late can’t pick Lincoln up. One of his co-worker friends has a son that goes to the same school, and he offered to drop Lincoln off on his way back home.”

  “Isn’t this the third time in a week Brandon has flaked out on you with Lincoln?” Brooklyn asks.

  “Fourth. But who’s counting?” I sigh.

  Regardless of how shitty of a husband Brandon was, he was always a decent father. He’s always been the straight-laced, proper disciplinarian, while I was always the one who crawled around on the floor, made animal noises, built forts in the living room out of every chair, blanket and pillow we owned, and snuck Lincoln out of the time-out Brandon put him in as soon as Brandon would leave the room. Even though Brandon wasn’t the type to roll around on the floor with his son and al
ways sat on the sidelines to watch us goof off, he was still always there. He was always present, always engaging our son in conversation and teaching him new things, because that’s just how he operates. He thinks with his brain and not his heart. Until we moved here and his work moved to the top of the totem pole.

  “Well, I’m sure if you let your boss stuff his sausage in your omelet, you’ll forget all your troubles,” Brooklyn tells me.

  “There will be no sausage stuffing! Stop trying to make sex happen.”

  Before Brooklyn can respond, my doorbell rings.

  With a quick goodbye, I end the call and shove my phone in my back pocket. Taking a deep breath, I emerge from the hallway with a cool, calm smile on my face that in no way tells Baker I’ve been ogling him from the hallway while I secretly called my best friend to ogle him some more, and even sent her a picture I took of him from around the corner.

  “Should I hide or something? Maybe go in the closet, and then jump out and yell, ‘Surprise!’” Baker speaks nervously, quickly getting up from the couch.

  Before I escaped to call Brooklyn, Baker looked at the time and we both realized Lincoln would be home any minute. I hadn’t even realized four hours had gone by since we’d gotten here. It took a while to build the cage and set it up, and then we did a bunch more research on my laptop about owning a hedgehog, and then Baker spent hours shopping for little hedgehog outfits on Amazon. Aside from that last, ridiculously weird part where he insisted the damn thing needed a mini tuxedo, it was fun. And easy. And like we’d hung out like this a hundred times before.