“Stupid.”
“Stupid.”
I chant while waiting until his black truck leaves.
CHAPTER TWO
I'm a moron. There's something wrong with me. In my brain. For real.
Sitting in my house with my cell phone in hand, I'm cute and witty and fun. Put me in live-action situations where the cute guy is standing across from me, and I make a reference to Netflix and chill. I'm aware of this fault in my DNA, but for some reason, the general population has allowed me to continue talking to people.
That's why, five minutes after returning home from the pet store, I did something stupid.
I texted Spencer.
Because I'm a moron.
I asked him over for a movie and dinner…tonight.
At my place.
In the back of my brain, I thought he’d be busy, and we’d plan something for next week. It would give me time to prep, pick out an outfit, work on some lines, and generally try to become less of a moron.
But no. Spencer, who does not know I'm a moron, said he'd be right over.
Did you catch that? He said he'd be right over.
BE RIGHT OVER!
As in, there will be a hot guy in my house momentarily. And I offered to Netflix and chill with him.
I don’t even know what that means.
Have I agreed to have sex with him? I mean, he's hot, but I've never been one to put out on the first date. I rub circles over my right temple, but it does little to relieve the forming headache. The bed shakes as I flounce on it in despair. The ill thought-out act puts me directly in the path of a full-length mirror, and I don’t possess the hips and waistline to look at myself in a sitting position this closely. Ugh.
A few minutes of solid pacing take place in front of the mirror with my hand on my chin, contemplating if I should change my clothes. It’s winter in Maine, so the sweater is nothing but practical, but maybe so many layers is a bad decision for a date. Especially a first date.
Before I have a chance to make a decision, there's a knock on the front door. And then a dog bark. Looks like the jeans and oversized sweater will have to do.
Spencer stands on my little stoop holding a large red-and-white pizza box,Buddieswritten on the top, the local biker bar who also specializes in the best pizza in the county. When you live in a tiny town, every restaurant plays double duty in something. He's still coatless, his sleeves pulled tight around thick muscles.
"Hey," I drag the word out like a freshman who gets her first chance to talk to a senior in high school.
The black ball of fluff I met earlier today, Frankie, jumps and pulls on her leash, trying her hardest to get in my house.
"Hey," he actually sounds a little nervous, too, which makes me feel better. "I hope we’re not too early. There was traffic coming into town, and I didn't want to be late."
"Really?" The city population is less than one-thousand residents. I don’t think we've ever had a traffic problem.
He laughs. "No.”
Frankie gives one big tug on the leash, catching Spencer off guard. His body lurches forward, and he drops the leash in order to hold on to the pizza.
"Shit." I grab the box from him just as Frankie hits me in the kneecap before running into the living room.
"I'm so sorry." He looks to the sky and runs two fingers through his hair. "All I ever do is apologize for the dog. I hope it's okay I brought her. I was scared of what she’d eat if I left her alone too long. And she seemed to make you like me the first time.”
Frankie jumps over the back of my couch, her big body making the legs clack on the hardwood floors when she makes contact with the cushions. With her nose, she nuzzles both ends until all the throw pillows are on the floor and then she stops directly in the middle and lays down, perfectly at peace.
