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I’m like, the opposite of pregnant.
I could be the poster girl for not fucking pregnant.
But now that he’s folded my fucking maternity pants—not to mention my entire collection of La Perlas—fat fucking chance that he’ll believe that.
I know how it looks. Like, why the hell would a very-not-pregnant woman my age be rocking around with a pair of maternity pants in her dirty laundry, right?
Never mind that I only wear them when I’m on my period and totally bloated and need them to hold a hot water bottle in while I sit at my desk all night.
Try explaining that to a dude, and you’d hear fucking crickets, man.
Which is exactly what I would hear from Paging-Doctor-Hottie…if I even had the time.
Which I don’t.
“Fuck!” I yell again as I toss the laundry basket onto my bed.
I dig around in it for a clean shirt, pull it on and race out the door.
By the time I get to the station, I’m still wondering why the fuck I even care what Rainier thinks about the current status of my uterus.
He’s a dude who saw me naked in the laundry room last night.
…A really hot dude.
With a body that I kind of want to put my tongue all over.
Okay. So by the time I pull my headphones on, I know exactly why I care: I want to ride Dr. Rainier McDreamboat’s dick until we both pass out from sheer fucking ecstasy, which isn’t going to happen now unless he’s one of those guys.
Considering that his note said he wanted to recommend me a maternity doctor, not stick his dick in me where the sun don’t shine, I would guess that’s not the case.
“Sinful Selections, you’re on the air,” I say into the mic as the last song fades out.
If I wasn’t a good fucking DJ, I would bitch about this to my listeners.
But since Dr. McDreamboat seems like the up-all-night type as well…fuck, with my luck he’s probably a listener to boot.
Instead, I just take the fucking call.
“Hey, Sabrina,” an attractive male voice says on the other end of the line. Not Dr. McDreamboat attractive, admittedly…but I bet he’s somebody’s type. “I’ve got a song request for you. A special one, actually.”
I laugh a little into the mic. “What’s your name, buddy? You sound a little nervous.”
He laughs back, which is a good sign. People get weird when they’re on the air sometimes—especially when the calls are coming in this late at night.
“Evan,” the caller tells me. “See, I’m here with this girl I’ve been seeing lately, and she thinks I’m too afraid to commit—so what I’m thinking is, maybe if I say it live on air to everyone in the Big Apple still awake at four in the morning, she might fucking believe me for once.”
“I’ve got your back, Evan. What’s the song?”
He tells me, and I set it up for him, keeping the volume on low so the listeners and I can hear what he has to say.
“Emilia…you’re the mouthiest fucking woman I’ve ever met. You drive me crazy. You’re so stubborn it makes me want to pull all my hair out and live the rest of my life as a bald man. And if I fuck you any fucking harder, one of these days we’re going to end up breaking my goddamn bed…
“But I love you, babe. I’m in love with you. And if you won’t be mine…I’m going to keep calling into every radio station in the city requesting this song so it haunts you for the rest of your fucking life.”
I’m seriously grinning like crazy right now. If this was any other radio station at any other time of the day, we would have had to bleep out like every third word this dude just said…
But as far as professions of love go, it’s a winner in my book.
