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I trusted him.
And if he told me to stay away from Truman for Truman’s own good, I’d do it.
“Maybe he just wants to get his cherry popped,” Mikey mused.
Had I been drinking anything in the moment, I would have spit it across the table. I opened my mouth to ask if he was for real, or, more importantly, if he actually had information about Truman’s virgin status, but I closed it again with a snap of teeth.
I wasn’t going to discuss Truman’s personal, intimate business at my friends’ dinner table.
“Sam’s going to crush him like a bug,” Tiller murmured into his water glass before taking a sip. I glared at him.
“I’m surprised he picked you, of all people,” Mikey continued. I bristled.
“What’s wrong with me?”
He rolled his eyes and flapped his hand dismissively. “Calm your tits. I just mean, he’s very intimidated by big muscular guys. The first time he saw Tiller, he edged away from him.”
Tiller snapped his head around. “No he didn’t.”
“He did, babe. He was nervous around you. And not because you’re a hot dish.”
“Maybe it’s because I’m a famous ballplayer,” Tiller suggested before adding, “A celebrity.”
Mikey gave him an exaggerated nod. “Absolutely. Because Truman Sweet lives, eats, and breathes professional football. He probably knew exactly who you were when you walked in and could regurgitate all your stats. RBI’s, free-throw percentages, handicap, and whatnot. The man most likely has a poster of you on his—”
Tiller clapped a hand over Mikey’s mouth. It drove him crazy when Mikey pretended not to understand football. “Fine. Point taken.”
Mikey reached for Tiller’s wrist to pull his hand away but not before kissing his palm gently. “I’ve noticed it a ton of other times. In fact, the first time he saw Sam at the diner, he went pale and bolted.”
My stomach dropped. “You’re kidding?”
“No. But he doesn’t seem to feel that way anymore at all. At least, from what you describe.”
I thought back to having surprised Truman in his garden earlier. He hadn’t seemed scared because of me; he’d simply been startled that anyone had arrived without his notice. But then again… he had scooted away from me in the kitchen.
“Maybe you’re right,” I said, suddenly depressed about the idea of intimidating the sweet man. I hoped I hadn’t truly upset him. “I’ll have to pay better attention to make sure I’m not freaking him out, I guess.”
Tiller stood up to gather the last of the dirty dishes from the table. “I’m sure you’re fine. Besides, it’s not like you’re actually going to deflower the guy on the first date.”
Mikey shot me a knowing grin. “I believe Sam’s preferred euphemism is ‘helping him fix his gate.’”
As Tiller laughed, I launched out of my chair to fake-tackle him, but before I got close, he shrieked and went running for the safety of Tiller’s arms over by the kitchen sink. I called him all kinds of names before finally booting the two of them out of the kitchen so I could clean up in peaceful silence.
While daydreaming about helping a certain sweet virgin…
Fix his gate.
8
Truman
How many kinds of cumin were too many for a cumin chicken date? And was Sam Rigby a briefs or boxers guy?
I glanced over at the pile of discarded underwear on my bed before taking another look in the mirror. If black made people look skinny, maybe black briefs weren’t the right choice for a man to try and make his… assets appear more… assetty.
I shimmied out of the black briefs and tried not to lecture them about being a little too slimming.
Next came the pair I’d picked up at Macy’s in Denver a month ago when I’d gone into the city for a supply run. These were little Calvin Klein boy shorts with a bright blue-and-green camouflage design. He wouldn’t mistake me for some kind of hunter if I wore camo. Would he?
Don’t be ridiculous. You hardly look like a hunter. Besides, he probably doesn’t even want to see your underwear.
I thought back to the way he’d looked at me yesterday.
Sam wanted to see my underwear. Or, rather, he wanted to see me without my underwear. I was fairly certain of it. And the thought made the Calvin Kleins prematurely tight, enough to make me seriously consider touching myself in an effort to keep from humiliating myself when the man arrived.
The sound of tires on gravel suddenly sent me running in a frantic, confused circle. He was here. He was here, and I was in my underwear.
“Clothes,” I muttered. “Any clothes. Put on clothes.”
Thankfully, I’d already set out my top choice. I grabbed the blue jeans and hopped into them before sliding my brown belt through the loops. The jeans sat low on my hips which was my only nod to trying to be cooler than I was. For once, I’d eschewed my more formal trousers to try and appear a little less dorky.
