Right. He fixed my car.
I don’t have to do the scoot and bump. I don’t have to bruise my thighs. I walk around the front of the car, feeling like this moment is a little surreal. I haven’t gotten into my car the regular way in…a year. Not since the handle was banged up while I was parked at a farmers’ market in Duck Falls, where I was meeting a guy I’d met on an app. His name was Casper, he had a mustache of course, and he made his own pickles. He wanted to show me where he worked.
Served me right. He droned on about brine while some fucker in a tricked-out truck—probably, because that’s who I parked next to—banged my car as he pulled out.
And I didn’t have the money to fix it.
Little did I know a gorgeous colleague who’s incredibly handy would fix it.
And that settles it.
It’s time for the big guns. I have no choice but to call for reinforcements. I’ve got an hour before my first training appointment, and this is serious.
* * *
“So then, I practically asked for him to rearrange my DNA with his big dick,” I say to my friends at a table in the back of Pick Me Up. We’re at our usual spot around a corner table beneath the whimsical fox painting.
Bridget blinks.
Ripley stares.
They’re dead silent for several seconds, clutching their ceramic mugs. Bridget moves first, lifting a manicured finger—a sleek shade of silver. “You used those words?” It comes out slow, careful.
“Along those lines,” I say, then take a sip, thinking back to last night. “Wait. It was more like my tonsils are issuing an invitation to get to know your big dick.”
“That’s impressive too,” Ripley says.
“But the dick line is good. Save it. Use it again,” Bridget says encouragingly.
I sigh. “That’s my point. I shouldn’t do this again with him. Don’t you get it?”
Bridget nods like she’s reminding herself. “Right, right, that’swhy we’re here. To help you make sure you don’t say something likerearrange my DNA with your dick?”
“Yes, exactly. Thank you. You understand now,” I say, then take another sip of the vanilla latte. Yep, I definitely needed to meet with my friends.
“So what exactly are you asking us for—other lines you could use on him, or how to shut your mouth so you don’t say things like that?” Ripley asks, cutting to the chase after she plucks off a corner of a scone.
“What do I do? We have to work together. But we lunged at each other like feral animals last night.”
“I guess really…don’t lunge again?” Ripley offers.
“I know, but I feel like such a jerk. I mean, I kind of kicked him out. But in my defense, it was necessary. I mean, if he stayed there any longer, he definitely would have been getting to know all my genomes.”
“I don’t remember you being this good at science back in high school,” Bridget points out.
“I paid a lot of attention in sex ed,” I say, then demurely lift my cup once more.
“Actually, I’m not so sure you did if you think genomes can be moved like furniture,” Ripley says pointedly.
“Fine, fine. But now I have to work on this show with him, and he’s kind of a hard-ass. I just need to find a way to say I’m sorry without actually saying I’m sorry. Because I kind of said I was sorry last night, and he acted like I didn’t need to say I was sorry and that the whole sorry was no big deal.”
“Oh, so he acted super chill when you kicked him out while he was still half hard?” Bridget says in the driest tone possible.
I swivel to face her. “You were looking in my window last night?”
She laughs. “Yes, I was. Or I’m a good guesser. Take your pick.”
“Fine, fine. I was a big jerk. I guess we know the answer to the question. I tried to explain myself…”
