by J B Heller
She’s silent for a solid thirty seconds, probably trying to dodge my other question.
“Flamingo tongues, Reagan. Talk.”
Her sigh is audible all the way from here, and I’m grinning like a fool again.
“Okay, so I’m not just some crazy who likes weird shit. It’s literally what I do. It’s my job. I’m the fact-checker at Pink Bits. I spend all day verifying random and quirky facts, and I freaking love it. But it leaves me a little ill-equipped when it comes to holding a normal conversation.”
The job definitely suits her. But I have one question. I quickly make our coffees then stride back into the lounge carrying two steaming mugs of life-giving liquid. “What the fuck is Pink Bits? It sounds like a strip club, and I don’t think the clientele go to those places for fun facts.”
I sit on the edge of the seat she’s on. In my rush to make the coffees, I hadn’t noticed the mugs I’d pulled out for us to use… until now. Mine says, The Muggle Struggle is Real, and the one I grabbed for Reagan says, She Believed She Could, So She Ate The Whole Pizza.
“Nice cups,” I say as I hand over hers. “Hope you like it with milk and sugar, ’cause I made it on autopilot and forgot to ask.”
Her fingertips graze mine as she takes it from me, and I swear I feel a spark shoot up my arm. I’m turning into Simon. A shudder crawls under my skin, and I have to shake my arm out to get rid of the feeling.
Reagan quirks a brow. “You okay?”
I look at her like she’s the crazy one here. “Uh, yeah. So back to your job. Pink Bits—strip joint?”
She takes a sip of her coffee and hums as she swallows. My dick twitches. I close my eyes and think of my grandma in her underwear. Only when I’m sure my dick has gotten the message do I lift her feet and slide back farther on the couch, then place them in my lap, down near my knees.
I take a swig from my cup to distract myself from her reaction to it, and damn, it’s good.
With a flick of her tongue, she removes a drop of coffee from the corner of her lip, then answers my question. “No, Pink Bits is not a strip joint. It’s my father’s female hygienics company. You’ve never heard of the Pink Bits brand before?”
I shake my head. “I don’t have any reason to know anything about female hygiene products, so that’s a no for me. But now that you say it, the name fits. It’s actually kinda cool.”
She smiles proudly. “It really is. My dad has done wonderful things in the industry.”
But I’m struggling to understand why a company that makes that kind of shit needs a fact-checker. “And where do you come into the equation? I’m not seeing it.”
Shuffling back slightly, she lifts her hand to gesticulate as she speaks with way more excitement than I think the topic requires, but I love how into it she is. “Right. So, pads and tampons are nobody’s idea of a good time. They’re ugly and boring. So, I came up with the idea of putting random little facts on the packaging for women to read while they’re doing the mandatory change over.”
Her eyes are shining like sapphires; I can’t look away. They sparkle as she speaks, and I’m caught in a daze as she blabs on about something I really don’t care to know about. But her excitement makes me want to hear every word she has to say.
I am so utterly screwed.
I’m doing it again—talking incessantly. But I’m so passionate about Pink Bits and my role in the company. “What woman wants to look at a bland sticky strip on the inside of her pad when she could be finding joy in the fact that you can create five new starfishes by cutting one single starfish into pieces? I mean, how cool is—” He’s looking at me like he wants to kiss me, and I stumble over my words.
My train of thought has officially left the building.
Rhett’s eyes fix on my face. He’s listening so closely to every word I’m saying that I’m suddenly nervous. That never happens. My lack of filter is my weakness; I get the slightest bit nervy and I blurt inappropriate facts. But now I’m having trouble even finding my tongue.
A shiver I can’t suppress runs from the tips of my toes up my leg, and I realise he’s gently running his fingers over my tender foot. His gaze locks on mine. My skin prickles as his rough hand slides across my ankle and over my calf on its way up my body.
“Swans are the only birds with an external penis!” I blurt.
Oh my God.
Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I just said that out loud to my sexy-as-sin neighbour.
Kill me now.
I’m about to tell her just how stunning her eyes are when those words explode from her mouth. My hand freezes midway up her toned thigh. “What?”
She holds her breath for a moment before expelling it in a rush. “It’s the most recent fact I entered into the database: swans are the only birds with an external penis. All other birds have internal ones that only come out to play when it’s showtime.”
A deep, rough laugh erupts from my belly. This chick is fucking crazy, and I’m loving every second of it. She’s so random. I’m never sure what’s going to come out of her mouth. I mean, I was in the process of making a move on her, but I’m not upset that she ruined the moment. Actually, I think she made it better.
When my laughter subsides, I can’t help but smile at the blank expression on her gorgeous face. “What now? What’s wrong?”
A deep crease forms between her perfectly shaped brows. “I thought for sure you would have been out the door by now, but you’re still here.”
“Yeah, and?”
The corner of her lip is trapped between her teeth as she gnaws on it. I can’t stand seeing her like that, unsure of herself. I reach forward, slide my palm around her jaw and free her lip with my thumb. “Don’t do that. I like your brand of crazy. You don’t have to try and hide it from me.”
Her grin is blinding. It lights up her entire face, widens her bright eyes, and takes my breath away.
With my hand still cupping her face, my thumb glides over her full, pouty bottom lip. “You have a beautiful mouth,” I tell her. It’s not a smooth compliment, but it’s an honest one.
“Yeah?” she exhales.
I nod. “Fuck yeah.”
I’m so close to her now I can feel her breath on my own lips, and I don’t even recall moving up the couch. She has me under some kind of spell.
I want to kiss her.
I want to feel her skin under my palms.
I want to hear her breathy moans as I slide inside of her.
I want. I want. I want.
Suddenly, her eyes widen in pain, and her breath hitches. “My foot,” she gasps.
I’d forgotten I was still nursing her injured foot in my hand, and my lust-driven thoughts must have caused my grip to tighten. Asshole!
Immediately, I release her, sliding back down the end of the couch to inspect the damage I’ve just inflicted. Blood has seeped through to the top of the fresh dressing. Shit.
I place my hand over the red smear to hide it from her. “It’s all good down here. Sorry I hurt you; I didn’t mean to. I was just looking at your lips and got carried away. I’m so fucking sorry, Reagan.”
With a grimace, she tries to comfort me. “It’s alright. It didn’t hurt that bad …”
I close my eyes against the obvious lie. “Reagan, it did. I did. Again.” Seems like that’s all I’m good at with this girl. Our first encounter and I’ve landed her in hospital, needing stitches, then squeezed the wound so tightly I made her bleed. I’m on a roll today.
“I should go and let you get some rest,” I tell her, lifting her feet from my lap and gently depositing them back on the couch when I stand. My hand lingers on her ankle, though. I should cover the bloodied patch before I leave in case it sends her loopy when she spots it.
Holding up a finger, I instruct her to stay put, then retrieve one of the replacement dressings the doc gave us and place it directly on top of the current one.
Satisfied I’ve done a good thing, I know I need to leave before doing something else to cause
her pain.
“I’ll check in on you tomorrow?” I ask more than state as I turn to leave her.
Silence greets my back. Glancing over my shoulder, I see she’s staring out the window. “Reagan?” I prompt. Her face is expressionless when she returns her gaze to me. I swallow. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”
She nods her head once, then goes back to looking out the window.
And there you have it, folks: how to scare a man away in less than twenty-four hours.
I feel even more pathetic now than I did last night, coming home to my empty apartment on a Friday evening with no plans for the weekend.
It’s not like we were off to a good start anyway—what with the glass in the foot and all. But we could have been friends; I would have liked that. I don’t think he’ll be back tomorrow. He’s probably on the phone to the landlord now, abandoning his lease and searching for a new apartment building where he won’t ever have to run into the awkward girl again.
I need Char’s input on this. My eyes roam the room, searching for my phone, and I spot it on the TV cabinet. Roughly calculating the distance from my position on the couch to my goal, I figure I can make it no worries. It’s like ten feet, max.
Swinging my legs around, I gingerly place them on the floor. I won’t need the crutches for such a short jaunt. Licking my lips, I use my hands to push myself up and off the couch. I manage one, two, three steps—shit!
I cry out as I crumple in a heap in the middle of the room. My foot burns, and the stitches pull tight. I lie on the floor for a good five minutes, waiting for the pain to subside, before deciding to crawl the rest of the way to the TV cabinet. A wave of victory washes over me as my fingers curl around my phone. “SUCCESS!” I yell as I slide back to the floor and crawl my way to the couch.
Once I’m comfortably situated with my feet propped up by some throw pillows, I call Char. It rings for so long I think her voicemail is going to pick up, but it’s Char’s breathy voice that greets me.
“Hiya,” I chirp.
“Hey, s’up?” she croaks.
I’m on high alert instantly. “What’s wrong? You sound like death.”
“I wish I was dead. There is no pain in death.”
Oh shit. With everything that happened this morning, I forgot she had an endo flare-up last night. “Still hurting, babe?”
I hear Char swallow. “Yeah, you could say that. Or you could say Freddy Krueger has taken up residence in my uterus.”
Dear God. I’ve never been more thankful for the mild cramps I experience during shark week. “Sorry, honey. I’d offer to come lounge around with you, but I’m out of action. Long story short, my naked hot neighbour barged into my apartment this morning, I dropped my hammer and smashed the coffee table, and then stood on not one, but two massive shards of glass. He saw ALL my crazy when he took me to the hospital, but he stayed and took care of me even when I puked on him. He’s so sweet.” I sigh at the loss of what could have been—at the very least—a beautiful friendship.
“I’m sorry, what? Back right up, sugar tits, ’cause it sounded like you said the sexy piece of man meat who lives next door to you appeared inside your apartment naked this morning,” Char says, completely ignoring everything I’ve said except the naked neighbour bit.
“Yes, Char, but you missed the rest of it. And I’m not even done yet.”
“The rest doesn’t matter unless it ended in hot, sweaty sex,” she retorts.
“I wish!” I snort.
“Oh babe,” Char coos. “What happened?”
“I think he was going to kiss me, but my mouth got in the way again. I told him swans have external penises.” I groan at my stupidity.
Char bursts out laughing. “Damn, girl, that is priceless. What’d he do?”
“He laughed. Said he liked my crazy and that he thinks I have a beautiful mouth. Then, he accidently squeezed my ripped-up foot real hard, and he said he had to go.” I’m still trying to work out exactly where I went wrong. It seemed like he liked me, like he wasn’t put off by my quirks.
“Dude, he’s totally into you,” Char says.
I scoff. “Did you not just hear a word I said? This disaster is my life, Char, and I’m tired of it. You should have seen it; it was brutal.”
I just know she’s rolling her eyes at me. “I didn’t need to be there. From what you just told me, he’s into you. Trust me, I know these things. My sexy-time senses are tingling. You’re being dramatic.”
My nose scrunches. I’m sceptical, at best, about Char’s claim to have special sexual senses. “Your sexy-time senses can’t pick up stuff that you’re not even around to see unfold. That’s not how those kinds of things work.”
“Uh, yes they do. What would you know anyway? Your superpower is weirding people out with obscure facts. Mine is knowing when someone is attracted to another person.”
It’s my turn to roll my eyes. “They are not superpowers, Char. They’re social handicaps, at best. You thought your gynaecologist was into you, but he was just doing his job. I think you’re just as off the mark with this situation.”
Char takes a sharp inhale of breath, and I know what it means: she’s in a lot of pain.
“Babe, we can talk about this later. The doc gave me some good pain pills for my foot. I can try to figure out a way to get them to you if you need them,” I offer. I hate not being able to help her when she’s like this.
“Pfft, your pain pills have got nothing on mine.” She breathes slow and deep. “I’ll be fine. I was just trying to stretch out the time between doses. It was a stupid idea. I should have taken them a half hour ago. Now I have to wait for this lot to kick in.”
“Okay,” I mumble, feeling shitty about not being there for her right now. “I’ll call you tomorrow to check on you.”
“I know you will. And, Reagan, he’s into you.” She makes kissy sounds, then hangs up.
Lying on my couch, I stare at the ceiling and contemplate my best friend’s words. Could he really be into me? Could Rhett be my unicorn?
It’s with these thoughts running through my mind that I fall asleep.
I’m sweating like a pig. Lying completely starkers on my couch isn’t even helping with this oppressive heat. What I really need to do is buy a whole new air conditioner, but that requires more effort than I’m willing to put in right now.
After the events of yesterday, I just want to spend the day doing sweet F.A. But this heat is too much; I’m dying in here.
I jerk upright when I remember I told Reagan I would check on her this morning. Scanning the room, I search for my long-forgotten pants. Spotting them over the back of one of my dining chairs, I snatch them up on my way past.
A minute later, I’m knocking on Reagan’s front door.
First silence, then a faint “hello” reaches my ears, and I call back, “It’s me, Rhett. Checking on you, as promised.”
I can hear her shuffling around inside, a few muted curses, and then the door swings open. She’s in the same tank I gave her yesterday and those sexy little shorts. My eyes eat her up; she’s a hot mess.
“Hey,” she greets and hobbles out of the way on her crutches, allowing me entry.
Sliding in past her, I don’t miss the way her eyes track over my bare chest. It feels good—her eyes on my body, taking me in. Makes me feel like less of a creeper when I check her out—which is a lot.
I’m almost past her when my foot catches on one of her crutches, and I go down like a tonne of bricks.
“Oh my God, I’m sorry! Are you okay?” she asks from above me, her blue eyes wide and searching.
“I’m good,” I assure her, shuffling out from under her and bouncing back to my feet. I don’t even care that I face-planted; the temperature in here feels like heaven on my overheated flesh. Smirking at the miserable look on her gorgeous face, I ask, “What’s wrong? You in pain?”
She shakes her head. “No, but I tripped you up. Not only am I awkward, I’m a klutz too,” she says with a shrug. “I
’m just a little over it all today.”
I lead the way into her lounge. “You need anything? Have you eaten this morning?”
“Nah, I only woke up not long ago. I’ve been dozing in and out on the couch. The pain meds make me sleepy.”
Well, that gives me something useful to do while I soak up the cool air coating my sweat-slicked skin. “Alright, you sit, and I’ll feed you,” I tell her while moving towards her kitchen. She doesn’t argue.
I open her fridge and pull out the eggs and bacon I saw in there yesterday, then check her drawers for a fry pan—bingo. It takes me ten minutes to whip up some fried eggs and bacon on toast for both of us since I haven’t eaten either. And we can’t forget the caffeine.
“Here you go, gorgeous,” I say with a flourish as I pass her a plate and a steaming mug of coffee, then duck back into the kitchen to grab my own.
When I take the seat across from her, she looks up at me, eyes wide. “Wow, this looks great and smells amazing. I didn’t even realise I was hungry.”
I settle back in my seat and grin at her. “Can’t go wrong with bacon.”
She smiles back, then pops an extra crispy piece in her mouth. “Amen to that.”
Just like yesterday, we eat in comfortable silence.
Until Reagan breaks it. “Did you know that coffee can be lethal in mass quantities?”
I quirk a brow and take a sip from my mug. This one says, Sexy, Sassy and a Little Bad Assy. I snort at it before answering her. “No, that’s news to me. And exactly how much coffee does one have to ingest for it to kill them?”
Her answering chuckle warms my insides as much as the coffee I’m drinking. “Planning a murder, are we?” she asks.
“If I told you, I’d have to kill you,” I tell her, my expression deadpan.
She shrugs. “Ten grams, or one hundred cups, in a four-hour period will do the trick, just for future reference. It might come in handy one day.”
