AllFreeNovel
Share Us
I chuck the scissors back in the kitchen drawer, grab the stray book of matches I’d originally been looking for, then shoot a text to Drew telling him I’m going to be a couple of minutes late.
Peter’s boxes aren’t heavy as I haul them out to the curb. They’re actually pretty small.
Like his dick. The thought makes me snicker. I don’t even care if I’m being petty right now. That rat bastard made it perfectly clear he had no respect for me while we were together. I’m just returning the favor.
I look down at the matchbook in my hand and do a quick check up and down the street, just in case my neighbors are hanging around.
I scan the boxes one more time just in case there’s anything I want out of them, or maybe something of any value. It’s all bullshit knickknacks and old paperwork, and I’m sick to damn death of looking at it. If Peter cared, he’d have packed it all up when he left three months ago. Or maybe he would have shown up today. Or asked me to mail them. Something.
So I don’t feel bad when the first lit match finds its mark. Pretty sure burning trash inside the city limits is against the law, but today I’ll take my chances.
I stay long enough to make sure the fire dies. It’s so damp from all the rain lately the flames barely take the cardboard. Par for the course lately.
By the time I get to the cafe, I’m feeling better than I have all week. Drew said he’d meet me outside, so I take advantage of the last bit of warmth we’re likely to get this year and sit at one of the tables near the door. Suits my mood just fine.
Working at the bank the last couple of years means I don’t get to spend a lot of time outdoors. Guess that’s my own fault for not trying a little harder in college, or at least picking a line of work that would let me get out more. Turns out business management isn’t a terribly useful field of study if you don’t actually intend to run a business. But the bank’s local and I like my boss. More or less. I mean, it’s fine. I’ve definitely had worse jobs.
I always figured this was the reason Drew and I hit it off so easily. He’s a regular jack-of-all-trades, after he figured out public education wasn’t his dream job. He just takes work as it comes and keeps the ones he likes.
I’m not an idiot or anything. My grades were pretty good. I have skills. I’m a damn good cook, for one thing. I guess that’s another reason Drew and I are friends.
And don’t ask me why I’m thinking about our friendship like it needs to be examined. Drew’s the most solid thing I’ve got in my life. He’s sure as hell stood by me more than anybody else I know, including my girlfriends. And God knows, more than my exes.
Hopefully this means he won’t be scared by the bangs.
I’m perfectly aware that there’s a good chance Drew and I would have lost touch by now if he hadn’t introduced me to Alan at that party all those years ago. Alan—the big, blond, built senior— swept a mildly intoxicated nineteen-year-old Bailey off her feet in the span of about five minutes, in large part because Drew had already friend zoned her lame ass.
It had been humiliating at the time; thank God we can laugh about it now. Drew still swears I’m the only person—guy or girl—who’s ever tried to get with him by asking about his other hookups.
I still think it’s really freaking hot that Drew is bi. Don’t know why it gets to me, but it does.
And that thought can go right back into the box of “shit Bailey doesn’t think about.” Along with just how much I loved hearing those hookup stories, on the rare occasions when Drew got drunk enough to tell them.
We’re grown-ups now and friends only—always and forever, he likes to say—so any thoughts containing the words “Drew” and “hot” are not welcome here.
I shake my head to derail that weird train of thought and catch a glimpse of somebody through the store’s solid glass picture window. I can’t see his face—there’s a sign in the way—but God. Damn. I’m pretty sure there’s no possible way Chris Evans, aka Captain America, aka finest motherfucker on the planet, is really standing in Bill & Jillie’s on this particular day. Not that I stalk him on Twitter or anything. Much.
But I’m pretty sure he’s filming on location right now, so the body I’m looking at is probably not Chris Evans. But sweet Christ, what a body. Shoulders for days. Fitted T-shirt showing off a seriously well-developed chest. If I were sitting any closer, I bet I could see his abs through the fabric.
Get a grip, girl. It’s not like it’s been forever since you got laid.
Maybe not, but it’s been a damn age and a half since anybody got me off without battery-powered assistance. And there is no way God would put a body like that on this earth and make it anything less than amazing in bed.
Whoever he is, the people he’s talking to seem to like him well enough. I watch as the two guys sitting with the girl laugh at something Not-Chris says, then wave him off as he walks up to the counter. I wonder briefly if Drew would be pissed if I ditched him to introduce myself to Not-Chris.
Except I’m off men, damn it. Focus, Bailey. Three fiancés in four years means I’ve got a serious problem and until I figure out what that is, no real-life penises for me. Not even the super kind.
Saying a heartfelt mental goodbye to that perfect male body I pull out my phone, determined to ignore Not-Chris if he walks out the cafe door. I start tapping out a text to Drew—he’d get a kick out of that guy, which is another reason we’re friends; Drew has excellent taste in men—when the bell over the Market door jingles. I don’t look up, just in case it’s Not-Chris and my clothes somehow evaporate without permission.
Sitting outside the Market, waiting, loser. Where are you? There’s a guy here you should see—
As I’m typing footsteps approach my table and stop. I ignore whoever it is as hard as I can, rewording the message. Before I can finish, a voice stops me.
“You don’t have to text me, genius, I’m standing right here.”
I freeze, my finger hovering over the Send button. A cup appears on the table in front of me.
Sneakers.
