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That’s a lie.
I’m doodle his name in frosting, dedicate every lovesick Paramore song to him, daydreaming about us dancing at our weddingin lovewith him.
Not that it matters.
Like I said, he could have anyone in the whole world – probably the solar system if we happen to discover non hostile extraterrestrials – meaning there’s no need to go spelunking around the other side of the friends’ zone for a wife.
Or girlfriend.
Or good time to be more accurate in his case.
Pretty sure the man is more allergic to commitment than I am to pollen.
Even the concept of dating – actual dating not our friendship dates – seems to cause his throat to swell.
Could be because of his PJ past.
I know he didn’t want to form attachments while he was in the military due to never knowing if he was going to come home or in how many pieces or how damaged he would be if or when he did. I know he never wanted to put anyone “extra” through that. Part of him hated having to put his parents through it after they had missed so much of his life already, but he did it anyway.
That’s just…kind of…the man he is.
He makes up his mind.
And that’s that.
It makes himperfectfor what he chooses to do for a living but a pain in the fucking ass to pick a movie with.
Don’t get me wrong, I loveA Few Good MenandTop GunandLadder 49as much as the next person, but can we get aJohn WickorThe Three Musketeersrewatch once in a while?
Melissa Lindsay, my main assistant and biggest office rumors supplier, gestures in the disgruntled employee that was pounding on my door with one hand and cradles my caramel cappuccino closer to her red dress covered chest with the other.
“What the fuck, Carmichael?” Tyson Reynolds viciously bites during his angry stomp over to me, red words flying through the air. “Why the fuck didn’t you give me the Frost assignment?!”
Why didn’t I send him to personally guard a set of aging billionaires during their private island shopping trip?
Perhaps because all it would’ve taken for him to get distracted would’ve been a pair of bronzed tits spilling out of a tiny bikini?
I don’t need that type of strike on my track record and truthfully?
Neither does he.
Reynolds chooses not to let me answer and slams his open palms on my sleek shaped desk. “Why the fuck would you give that shit to Underwood?! He’s only been here six fucking weeks!”
Right.
But he’s also retired secret service.
Pretty sure that trumps whatever it is Reynoldsthinkshe’s accomplished in his lifetime.
“Why the fuck,” more splashes of red words shoot past his lips, “don’t you ever give me any good assignments?!”
I push up my bright, turquoise-colored glasses and do my best to ignore what I know for a factisn’tthere.
Ilogically knowthat bright red letters aren’tactuallyfoaming from his mouth.
Aggressively swarming around his rectangle head and through the dark hairs of his beard.
Ilogicallyknow they’re not violently crashing into my desk.
