Ovary 1: “10”
Ovary 2: “01”
Ovary 1: “Seriously?”
Ovary 2: “Hell, yeah! No, wait.” (Flips scorecard over.) “10!”
That’s when Mr. 10-Out-Of-10 spoke.
“Here.” He picked up the pitcher and filled my glass.
My hand fell away from his. I darted a glance at his other hand. No wedding ring.
Yesssssss!
“I’m Nikos,” he said, filling his own glass and looking at me.
His eyes were grape green. I know that sounds flat and boring. You want me to say jade green or pine green—the color of the forest after it rains, the color of springtime ferns. But if you knew how much I love food, you’d understand I was awarding him the highest honor. Granted, I could have gone with something more poetic, like fresh asparagus tips, but asparagus makes your pee smell funny.
“Hi, I’m Moti.”
What the fuck? Did I just say my own name with a hard T?Hi, I’m Fatty.
“Moti?” he repeated.
“Moti. With a soft T.”
“Moti Wither-Softy?”
Good thing I wasn’t hiding man parts under my Spanx or I might’ve taken theWither-Softypart personally. I didn’t bother correcting him because I planned to take his last name anyway. I was all about the stars now. And destiny. And soul mates. And all the shit I didn’t believe in before.
Nikos’s eyes were roving over my body.
Holy crap, it’s happening. The planets are aligning. Heavenly cherubs are singing HALLELUJAH.
Thank you, Spanx Gods, and the three sit-ups I did two days ago.
Thank you, rice cakes.
Thank you, steamed vegetables.
“Cheers,” Nikos held up his glass and downed it.
I wondered if he tackled sex as ravenously as he drank. I was sure he’d prefer something stronger than water, but Joseph Uncle wasn’t about to foot the bill for an open bar. Water, juice, soft drinks, and masala chai. Anything else, you were on your own, buddy.
Nikos wore a blue dress shirt, snug pants, and a black leather belt slung around narrow hips. Not an ounce of extra flab on him—all trim and tight and toned. His hair was slick and luminous, sculpted back with gel and precision. A triangle of sun-kissed skin peeked over his collar. It was February in Chicago. He was obviously from Thomas’s side of the family. I watched his throat clench and unclench as he drained his glass. It did weird things to my internal combustion engine.
I took a sip of water to cool down and choked. Why? Because I realized I’d met him by the water. The pitchers of water. Just as Ma Anga predicted. And now I was going to die in the water. Or rather, from choking over a mouthful of water.
Oh God. Please don’t let it be so.
“Are you okay?” asked Nikos.
If you’ve never choked on water in public before, let me tell you, it’s the worst thing ever.
No. I take that back. Choking on water in front of someone you’re trying to impress is the worst thing ever. Your eyes are tearing, your face is red. You’re trying to look cool while spasming all over the place.
I held up one finger and nodded. “Excuse me,” I croaked and stumbled away.
