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“Seriously, babe?”
“Yep,” she grins. “You made me follow through when I lost the bet. Now it’s your turn.”
With a sigh, I throw my shirt at her and watch as she gingerly pulls it over her head, covering up that sexy lingerie before I lose my jeans, which somehow managed to stay up during the whole screwing in the doorway thing. I stand before her in my birthday suit. “Better?” I ask.
“Much,” she grins, clearly very proud of herself.
With a sigh, I go about the kitchen, preparing everything I need for dinner. It’s still a bit early, but I might as well get on with it.
I’m just finishing up when the intercom for the front gate buzzes, letting me know someone is here. Sophie gets up and checks the camera. “Oh, it’s a delivery,” she announces excitedly as she buzzes the driver through.
I double-check that my shirt is properly covering all her bits before she makes her way to the door, but I should know better by now. My shirt practically falls beneath her knees. I hear her opening the door and she thanks the driver before the door is closed once again.
I go about my business in the kitchen when I hear her entering the living room. “Babe, my stroller came,” she announces with a clear smile in her voice.
“Awesome,” I murmur, bending down to get the dinner out of the oven.
“Uhh,” comes an unfamiliar voice. “Where do you want this?”
What. The. Fuck?
Abandoning dinner, I whip around wearing nothing but a pair of oven mitts and find the delivery guy standing right in the center of my living room with a beaming Sophie right beside him. I quickly realize my cock and balls are out and that I just mooned the guy getting dinner out of the over, so I hastily cover myself with the mitts.
My eyes narrow on Sophie, but all she can do is smirk, letting me know that she invited the guy in on purpose. Hell, she probably gave him the big puppy-dog eyes and pointed out her pregnant belly, and the asshole would have fallen at her feet. Damn little hussy is going to pay for that one. “Just pop it down here,” Sophie says pointing toward the floor of the living room.
The delivery guy does just that, and Sophie can barely wait until he steps away before she starts ripping into the box. The delivery guy shuffles toward me with his tablet held out. “I need you to sign for it, here,” he says as he finally looks up at me. His eyes go wide and I recognize the look immediately—he’s a fan.
“Holy shit,” he gasps. “You’re Tank Meyers.”
“Yep, that’s me,” I say as I take the tablet from his hand and awkwardly try to sign for the stroller while still covering my junk.
“Wow. Fuck. I’m one of your biggest fans, dude,” he says. “Can I get an autograph?”
“Uh, well, I’m sort of in the middle of the first one you wanted,” I grunt. I wonder what planet one must be living on to even think now might be an appropriate time to ask for favors. I mean, shit. I’m in my fucking kitchen, covering my cock with my wife’s Hello Kitty oven mitts. This is not the time for autographs.
“Right, yeah,” he says, dropping the autograph thing. “I went to all the games last year. I think you’ll make it as captain this season,” he tells me.
“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” I say as he moves around the kitchen, unable to stand still in his excitement. Annoyingly, his movements mean I have to keep adjusting the oven mitt so the poor kid doesn’t get another eyeful of my dick.
“Yeah, no problem,” he says. “I actually applied for a position on the team a few weeks ago.”
“Really?” I ask, my brows dipping low, not aware that we had any openings.
“Yeah, I really want to be a hockey player. I don’t skate yet, but I figured they’d teach me once I got the position,” he says. “You know, that’s what the coach is for, right? I sent in my resume. Maybe you could put in a good word for me?”
He’s shitting me, right? Does he really think professional athletes just send in their resumes one day and cross their fingers, hoping they get a callback? Was he going to hire a pair of skates from skate rental, or maybe he was thinking of asking to borrow a pair off one of the boys?
I look at Sophie, who’s standing with a stroller wheel in her hand, trying her hardest not to burst out laughing. “Is he for real?” she mouths with a wicked grin.
I give her a slight shrug and turn my attention back to the stranger in my kitchen. “Sorry, buddy. That’s not quite how the recruitment process works,” I tell him, hating to shoot down his dreams.
