by Meghan Quinn
“We don’t need to talk about that.” Lauren clears her throat and points at my phone. “What’s his handle?”
“Uh-uh.” I shake my head. “You get no information until you tell me what your guilty pleasure is.”
“Not in front of my daughter, okay?”
Leaning closer, I whisper, “Is it porn?”
“What’s porn?” Chloe asks, popping her head up from the floor.
“Go get a popsicle,” Lauren says, directing Chloe to the kitchen with her arm.
As if the little girl never asked the question, she skips off to the kitchen gleefully.
Shyly, I shrug my shoulders. “Sorry.” A giggle escapes me. I can’t help it. It’s like the time I told Chloe to tell her dad he has a penis. I still laugh about it to this day. In front of his work colleagues, she went up to him, pointed at his crotch and in her cute little voice, she said, “Daddy, you have a penis.” Oh God, I’ve never seen my brother’s face turn that red in my entire life. He patted her on the head, said thank you, and sent her on her way. Later that night, when he asked Lauren about her little obvious pointing out of the genitals, Chloe ratted me out and said, “Aunt Noely told me to say it.” Took a bit for Alex to get over that one.
Clearing my throat, I ask, “What’s your guilty pleasure?”
Lauren picks at an imaginary piece of lint on her pants, defiance in her body language. She’s not going to break, thankfully. I have Alex.
“Alex, what is it?”
Without taking a second to consider his wife’s feelings, he says, “Cricket.”
My brow pinches together from utter confusion. “Cricket? What show is that? Is it on Netflix or Amazon?” Since I’m in the entertainment business, I know every show out there, reality and sitcom, and I’ve never heard of Cricket. The only shows I’m not entirely familiar with are Netflix and Amazon originals.
“Not a show, Noely. The sport. Cricket . . . the sport.”
“What?” I turn to my sister-in-law, laughing and unable to hide the huge smile on my face. “Your guilty pleasure is watching cricket?”
“Ask her about her little box she has in our upstairs closet.”
“Hey Alex, why don’t you shut your effing mouth?” Lauren says, shooting daggers in his direction.
“You have a box?” I’m bouncing up and down now, maybe a little too excited about this new revelation.
Folding her hands on her lap, Lauren pushes her shoulders back and says, “I suggest you move on from this moment, and I suggest you move on quickly—”
“We had to upgrade our cable package so we could get the cricket channel.” Alex clearly is digging his own grave over there and loving it from the look on his face.
“You think that’s funny, Alex? Yeah, see how funny it is when you’re looking for a little nighttime crawling and the gate is closed.”
Eh?
That’s a weird and disturbing way to tell him sex is off the menu.
Shaking the creepy image I’ve conjured up in my head, I turn to Lauren and say, “Please tell me if you have a favorite team.”
Sighing, her eyes to the sky, she says, “Australia, mainly because their uniforms are green and yellow and yellow looks good on me. And before you ask, yes, I have jerseys and hats and pom-poms in my little box in the closet, okay? So let’s move on, shall we? What the hell is the man’s handle?” Her voice rises, sounding a little out of control, so before she flips out, I decide to give her a break.
But if you don’t think I’m not going to store away this cricket information for my own personal use, you’re sorely mistaken.
“It’s IceBiscuit.”
“Ice biscuit?” Lauren asks, a sneer in her lip. “What kind of name is that? Is he a baker?”
“What? No.”
“Oh honey.” Alex shakes his head, eyes still trained on the elephant show.
Holding back my laugh since Lauren is already feeling sensitive about her love for cricket being exposed, I say, “Ice biscuit is a term used in hockey. It basically means the puck.”
“Well, that’s stupid.”
I let out a heavy sigh. “It really isn’t, but that’s besides the point. This guy loves hockey. His profile picture is a hockey stick, too.”
“Is he a Quakes fan?” Alex asks, finally giving me some of his attention.
When the jingle for a local pizza joint comes on the TV, I realize it’s a commercial. Of course he can pay attention now.
I scan IceBiscuit’s profile, looking for any kind of indication that he might be a Quakes fan. “Doesn’t say. But it does say he likes hockey, pool, and can make a pretty mean cheesesteak.”
“Hey, I like cheesesteak and hockey, maybe I should date this guy.” Alex pops a few more pieces of popcorn in his mouth.
Lauren snags my phone from my hands and tosses it over to Alex. It hits his belly with a resounding plop. “Have at it, sweetie. Let him know you like your nipples to be played with when getting frisky.”
Way too much information about my brother.
Alex picks up the phone and looks at the screen. “Eh, there is no mention of his love for animals on his profile. Deal-breaker.” He tosses his phone back at me and returns his attention to his elephants.
“Well, thank God for that,” I add sarcastically. “What do you think, should I accept the date?”
“I say go for it. Who knows, this very well might be the guy for you.”
He very well might be . . .
Chapter Twenty-Two
NOELY
“Miss Clark, how lovely to see you.” I fidget in my skinny jeans and heels as Veronica greets me . . . once again.
Okay, so I might have been gung-ho about date number three, but I’m not so excited about seeing Going In Blind’s employees. Don’t they want to take a night off? Maybe go run an errand while I check in? I glance over at the bar, and yep, Danny is over there, smiling at me.
Crap.
With a heavy sigh, I say, “Hi, Veronica. I have a date with IceBiscuit tonight.”
“Yes, we have you right here.” Veronica’s annoyingly charming smile lights up the entryway of the restaurant. Is she judging me? Does she think I’m difficult? I sure as hell hope not.
I’m a pleasant lady with a sassy demeanor, adventurous spirit, and big mouth . . . on occasion.
“Your date hasn’t arrived just yet, but if you’d like me to show you to the bar, I’m more than happy to.”
“I’m good.” I put up my hand. “I’m familiar with the bar already, but thank you.” For good humor, I give Veronica a wink and waltz myself toward the direction of the bar.
No surprise, I beat my date again. The downside of always being early.
What will I order this time? A margarita? I’m feeling a little spicy and bitter tonight, a little lackluster. Maybe not as desirable as usual.
Maybe it’s because I dressed like a peasant tonight.
Well, not really a peasant, but I had no drive to make myself irresistible. Instead, I threw on a pair of grey skinny jeans, a black turtleneck—yes, turtleneck—graced my neck with a statement necklace, put my hair up in a tight knot on the top of my head, and called it a day. I didn’t even shave my legs so you and I both know, there is no way in hell this date is going anywhere near humping surfaces.
The only thing that’s really spicing up my outfit is the bright red lipstick I put on during my ride over. It was a last-minute decision I’m pleased with. I have to give the guy something after I donned a black turtleneck. Might has well come to this date dressed like a nun.
But for the record, it’s a tight, fitted black turtleneck with three quarter length sleeves. it’s stylish, not something Michelle Tanner from Full House wore.
Adjusting my purse on my shoulder, I continue to make my way to the bar when I come face to shoulder with a broad man.
“Oh, pardon me.” I catch my balance on my heels, praying I don’t topple over.
“Excuse me.”
My ears pick up and when I
catch who’s standing in front of me, my nerves start to tingle and a little annoying flutter takes place in my stomach.
“Noely, lovely to see you.” His hands grip my shoulders, steadying me from our bump.
Clearing my throat—wishing I looked like the hooker I was last time I was here—I say, “Jack, lovely to see you as well.”
His eyes roam up and down my turtleneck, the corner of his lip tilting ever so slightly. That itty-bitty look right there has me itching to go Hulk on my clothes and sexify myself in zero-point-two seconds just to show him.
Shoulders pushed back, he adjusts his tie and gives me one more once-over, his eyes burning a wave of heat through my veins, making my turtleneck choice that much more worse. What is his deal? He wanted nothing to do with me, so why does he bother with all the sizzling staring?
Feeling uncomfortable, slightly bothered, and heated, I say, “Ya here on a date, pal?”
When did I start talking like that? Yikes. I have no idea. Chalk it up to being caught off guard.
“Indeed. Isn’t that why we’re all here?”
Arrogance; that’s fun to deal with during small talk. Not.
“I guess so.” Scanning the room, looking for an empty table, I ask, “Who is it?” I spot a girl to the right, hair in pigtails, a brown scarf wrapped up to her chin, and a rose in hand looking around. To the left, there is a gorgeous blonde wearing the lowest-cut shirt I’ve ever seen, showing off her ample cleavage, looking stunning. Let’s face it . . . a little slutty. Please let it be pigtails, come on, pigtails.
“Why so interested?” Jack asks, stepping in a little closer.
“Uh . . .” Scanning his position up and down, I clear my throat. “Just being friendly.”
“Friendly? Or Jealous?”
Jealous? What? Is he insane? Of course I’m not jealous. I don’t even know what jealousy is. I don’t have a jealous bone in my body. Not a single one . . .
Please let it be pigtails. If he goes with the tramp, I know he’ll more than just kiss her cheek tonight.
He takes another step forward, crowding my personal space, and making me sweat even more in this damn top. I’m tempted to pull on the collar around my neck but refrain from showing any tells on how he affects me. Still affects me.
“Don’t flatter yourself, Jack. Just being friendly.”
Not saying a word, he keeps his eyes trained on me, his stature sophisticated, alpha in all the best ways. Putting both his hands in his pockets, he rocks back on his heels, eyes still trained on mine. “Have a good night, Noely.”
And just like that, he pushes past me, leaving me in a wake of his delicious cologne. My nose soaks it up as if it’s the only air left in the room.
Glancing back, because I like to torture myself, I watch as Jack unbuttons his suit jacket and takes a seat across from the blonde, who gently places her hand over Jack’s as if they’ve known each other for ages. Chancing a quick look in my direction, Jack straightens his jacket and takes me in one last time, making me turn red from those mysterious eyes of his.
Damn him.
Flustered, I grip my purse tight to my side and turn away, pointing my body directly toward the bar. Why? Of all the men I could run into tonight, why Jack? Freaking sexy, writer of schmexy messages of the wooing variety . . . Don’t think about him, Noely. You know he wants nothing to do with you.
I skip all pleasantries and flop myself on the bar top. “Danny. Whiskey, stat.”
“Whiskey?” He raises an eyebrow at me. “Are you sure about that, Miss Clark?”
“You can either give me a glass, or pour it right down my gullet.” I lean my head back and point to my mouth, losing all kinds of self-respect.
Chuckling, looking slightly nervous, Danny grabs a glass and pours me two fingers of amber liquid.
I snag the glass from him and open wide, letting the liquid slosh around in my mouth. I swallow hard and my entire body shakes as my face puckers and my throat burns.
“Oh hell.” I squeeze my eyes shut, hating myself right now. “Oh crap, that’s bad.” Not even giving it a second thought, I gulp the rest of the glass down and shudder uncontrollably. I can only imagine what I look like right now: a turtleneck-wearing fish out of water, flapping around for dear life at the bar.
Cute.
Beyond attractive.
Eat your heart out, blonde with big boobs.
When I open my eyes, Danny is staring at me, concern etched in his features. “Give me another, bar tenda,” I say with a weird accent.
Something is happening to me, and I fear for IceBiscuit. He’s in for quite the ride, that’s for damn sure.
“Maybe we slow down,” Danny suggests. “How about for every whiskey, you drink a water? I think that’s a good idea.”
I lean over the bar and wiggle my finger at Danny in a “come hither” manner. When he’s right in front of me, I lean forward even more and grab his shirt, bringing him in dangerously close, our foreheads touch.
“Danny . . . dearest man who serves me booze. Do you see the way my eyes are flitting back and forth? Can you feel the crazy exuding from them?” He nods, swallowing hard. “This is my third date here, okay? This is my third time trying to find somebody to love me after two failed attempts from this supposedly perfect matchmaking system. I’m feeling a little out of control, mildly psychotic, and you know what, I will just say it, slightly turned on.” Shit, I didn’t want to say that to Danny. Shaking that thought, I continue, “So please be a gent, and scamper behind your little bar and give me more whiskey. Got it?”
I push him back, releasing his shirt and like a perfect lady, fold my hands on the bar, waiting for my drink.
“You know there have been many people—”
“I’m going to stop you right there.” I smile crazily at him. I can feel the devil trying to peek out. You know, the inner devil all women have, the one who turns us into a flame-throwing, fire-spitting she-dragon when people are least expecting it? I’m teetering the line right now, ready to burn this restaurant to the ground.
To the mother effing ground!
“Just bring me the booze.” I tap the bar counter. “Right here, put the booze right here. Go on, friend. Booze me up. Give me all the riches of intoxication.”
Sighing, Danny gives in to my demands and fills up another glass. When he sets it in front of me, I lean over and tap him on the cheek. “Such a good boy.”
With both hands, I grip the tumbler and pour it back in my mouth like I’m trying to get the crumbs out of an almost-empty chip bag. The liquid burns my throat once again, but I welcome it. I welcome the shudders, loving how I can feel my body starting to float. I have one more glass, because why not? Yes, this was a good idea. A very good idea. I just need to loosen up, find my groove, feel the blind date—
“ShopGirl?”
I spin around in my chair, probably a little too fast, given I need to grip the back of my chair to steady myself.
“IceBiscuit?” My eyes don’t meet his. Instead, I’m at nipple level, taking in his very broad and muscular chest. Wow. Heat rises to the back of my neck, and I know it’s not the whiskey; it’s the powerful chest right in front of me, and are those . . . are those his pecs? They’re all defined and large and yummy and . . . sigh. Curiosity pops out of me before I can stop myself, and I poke his chest. When I’m greeted with a firm bounce, I giggle to myself. “Pecs,” I mutter under my breath. Yep, yummy indeed. IceBiscuit is putting the work in at the gym and not shoving cheesesteaks down his throat. Hand on his chest, my fingers diddling his shirt, I look up to find a very confused but familiar face.
Shit.
Crap.
Oh God.
Have you ever felt all the blood in your face leech out of you, as if every last piece of color drains from your features and falls to the floor from total and utter embarrassment?
Try not only diddling your date’s chest, but diddling the one and only Hayden Holmes’s chest.
Shaking my hand away, as if he
’s burned me. I stand from my chair but stumble forward. Clearly, heels and whiskey don’t mix. I fall to my knees and curse under my breath. I pop up quickly, my legs feeling like a newborn calf’s, and throw my arms up in the air like a gymnast on her dismount. To add to the embarrassment, I say, “Nine point five, not a perfect ten, but I’ll get there.” I laugh nervously and right my shirt, while lowering my arms. “They don’t score like that anymore, but who’s really going to say fourteen-point-two-six-seven? I mean, especially when the viewers don’t know the degree of difficulty. You know?” Hayden just stares at me, so to put that final nail in my coffin, I punch his arm and say, “Gymnastics, am I right?”
Exposed and embarrassed, I glance at Danny, who’s watching from a distance with a look that says, I told you so. In my head, I shout back at him, “Shut up, Danny!”
Hayden reaches behind his neck and pulls on it, his large bicep flexing beneath his shirt. He’s dressed casually in a dark pair of jeans and tight-fitting, long-sleeved shirt. “Uh, are you okay?”
“Yep, fit as a fiddle.” I motion with a low fist pump across my body, as if to say, just dandy. Although I’m thinking just dandy would have been better than fit as a fiddle. Who can really know at this point? They’re both something my grandpa would say with a hop and a click of his heels in the air.
“Good.” He looks around, scanning the restaurant. “Never thought I’d run into you here. Are you ShopGirl?”
“I am but you can call me, Noely. Noely Clark.” I awkwardly grab his hand from his hip and shake it. “Nice to meet you.”
Puzzled, Hayden laughs. “I remember who you are, Noely.”
“Oh yeah, of course.” I pat my legs and say, “This is weird. I, uh, I didn’t think I would be matched with you, so I’m feeling nervous and intimidated. Because, you know, you’re all hot and whatnot with your hockey body and strong thighs and nice hair. And I’m sure if you turned around right now, I would see your high, tight ass.” My hands cup together and my face scrunches as I form a tight ass for him.
Note to self.
